


A Long Way Home

by butteredflame



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bran is Not Just a Tree, But We Haven't Forgotten About Whitewalkers So..., Canon-Typical Violence, Daenerys and Sansa Are Friends, Endgame, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jon and Arya Unite, Post-Episode: s06e09 Battle of the Bastards, R plus L equals J, They'll Be Happy In the End, Tyrion’s Daddy Issues Have Surfaced
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-01-19 13:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 44,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12411375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butteredflame/pseuds/butteredflame
Summary: After the Battle for Winterfell, Jon was captured by Bolton men then later found by Daenerys not far from Dragonstone. Their meeting blossoms into the most honest love--until Jon suddenly leaves for Winterfell, only to return to Dragonstone months later with more terrifying tales of dead men and Winter storms. When Daenerys chooses to send her armies north to fight the dead, all is certain but the matter of their bond. After the pain they'd endured, can they come together again? Or will separation be too powerful to overcome?*or*A tale of choice and second chances.





	1. Forgive Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [JONERYS WEEK | day 7: free choice - Jonerys AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/335508) by @briennister on Tumblr. 



> A/N: Hello, hello! It's good to be back. This is a three-shot monster, time-jumping AU, inspired by a beautiful jonerysweek gifset that blew up the fandom. I recently started work, so there's no guarantee on when this'll be finished. Fingers crossed, that the last chapter will be up by the end of November. I can make that happen! This is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> I don't own this, but if I did, that'd be nice. Lastly, here are some notes for readability. 
> 
> * ~ *~ * indicates the present/Dany  
> //\\\ indicates the past/Jon
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the man of my life, thank you.

 

* ~ *~ *

_Dragonstone_

289 AC

Winter

* ~ *~ *

 

The day was like any other.

Daenerys Targaryen sat on a throne carved from volcanic rock, listening to torrential rainfall assault the large windows above. Her fingertips had grown pink and numb from scoring into the stone arms, but the sensation was ignored in favor of the sudden shifting of her scribe and Lord Hand. Missandei of  _Naath_  turned her deep eyes on her, asking once again.  _Are you alright with this, your grace?_ For what she hoped was the last time, Daenerys nodded to her. Then she acknowledged Lord Tyrion’s uncertain glance with another nod. Her lips curled with approval when he seemed to straighten—just as the great double doors swung open. 

At the other end of the hall, her first  _bloodrider,_  Qotho, entered and sent her a single, decisive nod. While he took his place near the doors, two men trailed in after him. One, she knew intimately; the other, she had only known from stories.

“You stand in the audience of Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen. Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Khaleesi of the  _Dothraki_  Sea, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, The Unburnt.”

Missandei’s voice boomed, far louder than the thunder cracking beyond the walls of the castle. When her announcement was finished, a pause swelled over the room. Then it was quickly driven away by a roll of thunder. Though it was high noon, Dragonstone’s candlelit throne room was dim enough to bear witness to a flash of lightening. Daenerys’s gaze had never left Jon Snow’s armored form, so she watched it reveal his long, somber face—watched it reveal weariness in handsome eyes of coal.  _You have aged so much,_ she mused.  _Have you returned to carry more upon your shoulders?_ Daenerys was a mighty woman, so she credited Jon when his gaze never left hers.

“My lords,” she said, gesturing them forward. “You may approach.”

They did just that, and then his Lord Hand announced him. “This is Jon Snow.” The raise of a brow followed, as Jon turned to him. “He’s King in the North.”

Daenerys’s violet eyes narrowed at the title once more. The wording had been strange enough on the parchment he had sent in lieu of his arrival; now, hearing him referred to as such prickled her fiercely. After all, only a year ago he had burrowed under the safety of the castle with her, and had insisted she  _not_ refer to him as a lord. Now, he was the king of the northern most kingdom—and she couldn’t help but feel betrayed.

The landscape was clear enough. Jon Snow could have made a threat to her, but Daenerys was familiar enough with diplomacy to know he could make an ally in the realm’s ever-changing political landscape. As soon as she moved to her feet, Jon’s eyes slid to the stone floor. She felt it vibrating with the force of the storm beyond; waves crashing onto the shoreline with deadly force. When she stopped at the first step to the throne, he lifted his eyes again. 

“My lords, I am sure you are aware of this breath of peace  _Westeros_  has enjoyed in recent moons. Even the Riverlands have calmed, after Lord Edmure Tully regained control of the land. All the same, long journeys are arduous and unexpected. You’ve come from Winterfell. What has brought you to Dragonstone?”

His Hand seemed to pause, eyes seeking his King’s approval before he continued. Yet it seemed that Jon wanted to speak. His lips worked, as if he had never uttered a word to her before.

“Forgive me.”

She frowned deeply, eyes narrowing further. “My lord?" 

His Lord Hand cut in. “We’ve had a long trek from the ship, as you can tell. We’re soaked through from the rain. His grace hasn’t had time to—”

Daenerys cut her eyes to him. “You must be Ser Davos. Your King has told me much about you.”

“I have heard much of you as well…your grace.”

Her smile was but a flicker. “I hope his stories were accurate.”

“Well—” Ser Davos dipped head, a bemused grin blooming below his salt-and-pepper beard. “Most women want their stories to be told  _nicely_.”

“Lord Snow should have told you. I am no ordinary woman.”

“Tell him that, I did,” said Jon. Daenerys chased away the thrill from the quiet boom of his voice, instead watching his hands flex at his sides. “And you would do good to call me by my proper title, your grace. I am a king.” He looked around, sighing deeply. “We can put the pleasantries aside. There’s no time for it.”

“It’s nice to see you again, too, Lord Snow." 

Jon’s eyes flickered to Tyrion. He heaved a breath, nodded to her Lord Hand, then returned his attention to her.

“You may jape as much as you wish. I don’t care. The people of the North chose me to be their leader, to protect them and make sure they have what they need to live decently. It is on their behalf that I’ve come to you, to ask for your aid.” 

“That’s right,” she surmised, recalling the details of his letter. “You need my help. Perhaps you should have come to Dragonstone sooner. A moon’s turn or two would have made a difference.” 

He stared down at her, suspicious. “Why is that?”

“Why? My lord, there is only one war I care to fight,” she said fiercely. “Cersei Lannister has ascended the Iron Throne. The only reason she hasn’t yet exercised her power over Dragonstone is because my children circle the castle. After your departure…I have since begun to ready my armies for the coming war.”

“Your war with Cersei Lannister doesn’t matter,” he retorted. “None of this matters. While we stand here—” 

“Do you think you’re safe, Lord Snow?” Lord Tyrion questioned. “Now that the North has declared sovereignty once more, don’t you think Cersei’s more likely to retaliate? More likely to  _drag_ you into war—and beat you into submission?”

“The Lannisters are a Southron army,” Jon snapped. “You have  _never_ ranged so far north.”

“Now, here I thought you knew me better than that, Snow.”

Daenerys finally turned her eyes away from Jon. Lord Tyrion was stiff to the bone, scowling at him. To her surprise, when she returned to Jon, his features had fallen. He shook his head.

“This is madness. All of it, everywhere. It’s here, in King’s Landing, in the North and most certainly, Beyond the Wall. Nothing but madness.” When he took Daenerys’s eyes again, her throat tightened with a sudden taste of snow and smoke. “Now, I know I left to return to Winterfell and never sent a word to you. I know that doesn’t make me trustworthy, not anymore. But Daenerys…”

As tight as she typically strode to keep herself, Daenerys felt her features soften—the mask slipping away, the grief he’d left her with revealing itself with each breath. Jon’s eyes widened, open with honesty, flooding with concern.

“All of the stories I told you back then remain true. The greater truth remains, as well. The Night’s King is readying his army Beyond the Wall—of at least a hundred thousand dead. Snowstorms haven’t yet reached Dragonstone, but when they do, you will know the terror the North has endured for months, now. If we aren’t ready to fight them _,_  because we’re fighting each other…we’re dead before the real war has even begun.” 

Lord Tyrion tried again. “Perhaps this  _real war_ can wait.”

“ _It can’t._ ”

“Well you can’t have expected to arrive, asking for her aid, without giving something in turn? If you want our Queen’s armies, pledge yourself to her cause. It takes only a moment—”

“ _I will not_.”

“You will,” Daenerys snapped. “Bend the knee, Lord Snow.”

“My people won’t accept a Southron ruler,” he countered. “Lannister or Targaryen, it doesn’t matter. You’re all the same to them.”

“And what of you?” She couldn’t stop the laugh from rising from her throat. “The nerve of you! We have been readying ourselves, completely independent of the wants and needs of the North. Yet you’ve come to us, asking for our help. My lord, I didn’t think you were dense, but it seems I must spell this out to you.”

His face darkened, angered and hurt.  _Don’t,_ he said _. Don’t do this, Dany…_ Wondering why he thought he could still call her by that name, Daenerys narrowed her eyes at him.

“I came to Dragonstone to reclaim my birthright. I have stayed here for more than a year, because I refused to bring another war to this ravished country.” 

Even as Jon’s face fell further, his eyes opened to her once more—and unexpectedly, she felt a pulse of his admiration reach her.  _You know this_ , she realized, cooling with his touch.  _You remember_. She swallowed thickly, stunned by his sticky gaze. When she closed her eyes, the storm beyond the castle walls reached her ears again and she caught a flash of the past: soaked to the bone, water collecting on her eyelashes as she watched Jon’s ship disappear beyond the horizon. When she opened her eyes, her heart lurched—for good or bad, she did not know.

She continued. “Just as I am finally readying my armies, you arrived at the most inopportune time. Yet I allowed you to express what you’ve come so far to tell us, and my council believes every detail of the horrors you’ve described. I have given to you, Lord Snow. Now I will  _take_. The Seven Kingdoms are mine by right, including the North. I will fight for you, but first you will bend the knee.” 

“I know it’s not the right time for you,” he sympathized hotly. “But I will not apologize for asking when my people— _all of our people_ —need your help.”

“ _What will you do, then?_ ” 

Daenerys didn’t raise her voice often. To her surprise, the push didn’t send Jon further away. There was a breath, another flash of lightening, and then the shift of leather as Jon descended, digging one knee into the stone floor. Ser Davos shifted with great discomfort, but she was surprised not to hear a word pass from his lips. When Jon lifted his chin, eyes meeting hers, she knew they remained equals. Though she felt suspiciously agreeable to that, she held Jon’s gaze for a long moment.

“You may stand.”

The room’s air was tight as he rose to his feet. Daenerys glanced over her shoulder to check Missandei’s thoughts on the whole ordeal. Her dear friend’s expression was pinched with suspicion and concern. Lowering her eyes, Daenerys took a few steps to Qotho, where he stood near the great doors. In  _Dothraki_  she ordered him to fetch the bannermen with whom Lord Snow and his Lord Hand had sailed and to prepare rooms for them. She then returned to the attention of her guests.

“You must both be tired after your journey, especially through the storm.” She pressed her thumbs into her palm, wishing for her throne. “We’ll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms. You may follow Qotho.”

Yet Jon said nothing. She quirked a brow at him before she could stop herself. His lips remained tightly sealed—but he blinked at her, slowly and softly, and tilted his head deeply. That was how he took Daenerys’s breath away again. As she watched the men exit her throne room, listening to their echoing steps, she knew that Jon had given her trust not to harm him, trust to handle him preciously, trust to love him. Daenerys said nothing; only clung to the belief slipping from her grasp. 

The request for trust was impossible to ignore. For, when the great doors closed behind them, her resounding doubt hung heavy in the silence.

 

 

 

 

\\\

_Location Unknown_

288 AC

Autumn

//

 

Jon was not sure how he survived, especially with the cold.

His head was pounding, his body aching with battle scratches and bruises. Still, he put one hand under him and pushed himself up, blinking in the clear light of day. He was on a rock, beyond which, the sea’s deep waters churned; choppy, gritty blue. The sun, however, was  _utterly_ bright—golden rays piercing the cerulean sky. Jon’s cracked lips turned up at one side as he took in the sight.

His injuries were extensive enough that he likely could have been dying, yet he wouldn’t have known. Not here at least. For, here on a rock in the middle of the sea, the world was still and peaceful. 

Focusing his gaze, he spotted a ridge of land straight ahead. He saw bits of earth built into stacking towers…and there, along the coast, a murder of ravens disappearing on the horizon.  _It is a city,_ he realized. After surveying the rest of the rock, he knew there was nothing but water east of him…  _Which means that is Gulltown._ He closed his eyes, weary to the bone.  _If that is the Vale, then I am too far out to sea to be seen. Damn pirates, however, can find me._

That was it, then. The men who had taken him were truly cruel, spineless creatures. Their grubby hands had thrown him into the sea, and that was where he would die—

The thought preceded a sudden twitch that wracked his body. Panting, Jon wondered how long it would take for his body to grow familiar with life again. A moon’s turn had passed since his resurrection. Merely two or three days had passed since he’d stormed Winterfell with Tormund and Wun Wun flanking him—since he dodged Ramsay Bolton’s arrows and pummeled him into the earth until his blood stained the snow—

 _No,_ Jon refused.  _Now is not the time._

As if the gods had heard, the sea went quiet. His eyes scored the sky, searching, then widened at the flapping sound of drying leather. A screech pierced the air—then the world tipped back into nothingness with a  _woosh!_ His head tilted back in trepidation and awe as a black-scaled beast sailed above, large enough to drape itself over the Great Keep of Winterfell. 

 _A dragon._  

Jon caught sight of a woman tucked behind its shoulder. They rounded back before he could react and sailed so fast for him he could only hold his hands above his head, in a vain attempt to protect himself from the oncoming assault. The sound of flapping leather came again, slowing, until a shadow passed over him once more. Jon felt the heat of the large dragon as it dug its talons into the rock, cracking the surface but a few hands from his curled body. Then it lowered itself…and within moments, the woman had stepped onto the rock.

Jon lowered shaky hands to see her. His eyes widened again. She was a small woman, tucked in fine, dyed furs; stepping through uneven limestone to reach him. There was a pink undertone to her fawn complexion and silver spun into gold hair that disappeared behind her shoulders. However, their strangeness was rivaled by her violet eyes—which stuck to his gaze. When she stopped before him, he swallowed thickly.

Her eyes traced his body. From the tangled black curls plastered to his forehead, the lone piece of boiled leather strapped across his chest and his hips, naked without Longlcaw. She finally stopped at his breeches, then his bootless left foot. He flushed with sudden embarrassment, but pushed himself to stand. However, he only made it to his knees and panted with the effort it took.

“Do  _not_  move.”

The dragon’s large red eyes were trained on him, waiting for the wrong move. Or perhaps, for her command. 

“Who are you?” he asked, voice rough with disuse.

“I’ve come to ask the same of you.”

“That is a  _dragon_.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Aye,” he answered slowly, returning to her. “I’m off the coast of the Vale, far out into the Narrow Sea.”

“Yet you are no sea creature.  _How did you end up here?_ ”

He looked to the dragon again, then back to her expectant gaze.

“You have a dragon,” he repeated. “You are a Targaryen.  _How?_ ”

“ _Drogon—”_ The dragon turned its large head to hers, blowing steam from its nostrils. “ _Zaldrizes--"_

“Please, don’t—”

“How did you end up here?”

“I don’t know—”

She stepped forward threateningly. “The Vale has been untouched by the war. The only way I can see that you’ve ended up on this rock, injured, is that you are a pirate.” 

“I am  _not_ a pirate.”

Her face fell. “A slave, then?”

She surprised him once again, violet eyes scoring over his body as if in search of something. He had been stripped bare of his battle armor, stripped of his longsword, even stripped of a boot. Everything but his wounds from the mutiny were clear to see.

“What are you searching for?”

“Tattoos. Collars. Neither of which you bear.” Her face hardened. “I would say you are pirate, but you are Northern. I have been told that the Northern do not take, nor sell, slaves.  _Who are you?_ ”

When the dragon blew another torrent of steam, Jon knew he would not be asked again. He took a deep breath, ignoring the throbbing pain in his side. “I am Jon Snow, son of Lord Eddard of House Stark. I don’t know how I got here. I last remember—” He wet his lips, searching his memory. “—I was taken past White Harbor at night, and tossed into the waters.”

She started. “These men were your enemies, then?”

He nodded. The thought of such hatred pained him, weighed him down. His desire to sit conflicted with his pride, however, so he continued kneeling, watching her brow quirk skeptically.

“And what did you do to invoke such cruelty?”

“I took my home back from them,” Jon snapped, heavy to the bone, before shaking his head.” If you don’t want to help me, leave me here. If you do, I would appreciate a trip to the coast. Then you’ll have no more of me.” He paused, brow quirked. “If your presence is a secret you wish me to keep, I will. You have my word.”

She weighed him with her gaze, thumb moving along her palm. “You say you are the Lord of Winterfell?”

“My lord father was, but I’m a bastard, so now I suppose my sister—”

“That doesn’t matter.” She stopped him with a raised hand. “It is safe to assume these men live, yes?”

“Yes…”

“Say what you will of your word, I don’t know you. Yet if you are who you say, I can’t leave you here to die.” She looked to the coast and sighed. “There is no guarantee you will be safe in the Vale.”

“Jon Arryn was my father’s friend. They will welcome me in Gulltown.”

“I am doubtful of that, Jon Snow. Cities will harbor friend and foe, even in times of peace. And you are so far from home…”

He closed his eyes at the reminder. Yet he softened with her concern, palms curling as if to hold it. He hadn’t heard such gentle words in a long time…

“No.” She turned to him. “Dragonstone is where you are safest. You will come with me.”

“My lady—”

“You shall call me by my name. I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen. This is  _Drogon_.” The dragon huffed greatly. “And I am no lady. I am a queen _._ ”

He was so stunned he could say nothing, do nothing, but watch her step forward. She offered her hand to him. After a moment of consideration, he took it, then let her share his weight once he reached his feet. The scent of unknown spices lifted to his nose, as pleasant as they were unexpected. Yet this strange, refined woman did not shy away from the stench of dehydration and battle that clung to him. After sending him a glance that told him to trust her, she hooked his arm about her shoulders and helped him along, a few paces more than he could have moved on his own, to the dragon.  _Drogon._ The dragon huffed again, shifting its fearsome leathery wings. She murmured to Jon, told him not to be afraid, then moved him so he could shuffle to the dragon’s foot. She climbed onto his back, then reached down to help him up.

“Hold onto me,” she said, once they were seated high above the sea. “Do you trust me, Jon Snow?”

He’d answered,  _Yes_ , before he’d even known. Brow furrowed, he gazed at the back of her silver pale head—trying to place the sudden swell in his chest. 

“Good,” she said, then her voice came out in a hiss. “ _Sovēmagon!_ ”

The dragon took the world down with him as he crouched. Then he burst into the air with fury and speed. Jon weathered the unrestrained dance of wind and salt in the sky. Soon, freedom was all he knew, for a long time—as they raced the golden sun’s descent to the west. The experience was so pleasant that if Jon hadn’t known death’s icy grip, he would have known  _this_  other feeling of death. 

As it were, however, he did not.  

 

 

  

\\\

_Dragonstone_

288 AC

Autumn

//

   
“You’ve been taken under our Queen’s wing. How do you feel?”

Jon seriously considered it. After two weeks of rest, he felt better for it; injuries mostly healed, growing rather used to the farer climate. Something hung in the air on Dragonstone, something almost familiar to him. Yet Daenerys Targaryen was the greatest change in his life. Gone was the sun-spotted image of the woman come to save his life, a friend he’d known and had never seen again. Now that he was a guest of her court on Dragonstone, her surprising nature had claimed all his attention.

It was made more confusing, for the fact that no one had moved him…in a long time.

Lord Tyrion, at least, hadn’t changed. His wit had remained sharp enough to pierce skin. Although a pain, the reprieve was welcome to Jon after years in the Night’s Watch spent dodging dull wits and ugly words. Still, he found himself wary of the lord’s observant gaze. Even though he was drunk at early light, he would not shut his mouth. Lord Tyrion gestured to him. Jon frowned deeply at him.

“Her grace has told Missandei and I of a battle you fought beyond the Wolfswood. She said Roose Bolton’s bastard son was loosened when he legitimized him. Then the boy murdered him—” He stopped. Jon waited. He belched. “—Excuse me.  _Then_  he gathered an army ten thousand strong to defeat you in the battlefield and claim the North for his House and the Crown. The odds were not in your favor, yet you sit here now, in the ancient stronghold of House Targaryen. That’s quite a story, Jon Snow.”

“You’re the one telling it.”

He gave him a look. “Yet many details remain to be seen. How did you survive that battle? Better yet, how did you end up stranded on a rock in the sea, when you should have been in Winterfell?”

Jon’s fried bread and egg had gone tasteless. “Only a few hours had passed since we stormed the castle, but we were making preparations quickly. Stark tapestries hung where the Boltons had taken them down. Men were moving in, the lords who survived were arriving by the hour. I was needed in the Great Hall soon, but I hadn’t visited the crypts in years. I went to see my father.”

“I never got to apologize to Sansa for Lord Eddard’s death. She wouldn’t hear it.”

“I don’t welcome it, either. What’s done is done.” The thought returned him to his recollection. The crypts hadn’t changed. Torches lined the ancient walls, leading the way to Stark kings and lords. Father’s statue wasn’t much in his likeness. Yet Jon had been so absorbed in mourning, he’d heard their footsteps too late. “I’d left Longclaw on the battlefield. I didn’t have a damned thing to protect myself.”

“Protect yourself from whom?” 

“Bolton bannermen. Five of them. They were cowards, but they had weapons. They took me through the north gate and held me captive for days. They beat me, kicked me. But they never drew a weapon on me. I don’t know why.” He chuckled. “Maybe they wanted to give me a slow death. Days passed with that bloody sack over my head. Soon we neared rushing water. I thought we might have arrived in the Neck. But when I saw New Castle I knew we were in White Harbor. It was nighttime, when they brought me past the city, in the woods, and took me to the shore.”

“They threw you in?”

“They wanted to watch me drown.”

“You know how to swim, Northern boy?”

“I was elected the second-youngest Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Just as your Queen is no girl, I am no boy,” he bristled. “And I learned to swim in the great moat of Winterfell. It appears they hadn’t thought of that possibility.”

“Luckily for you, Snow. And congratulations on the election,” Lord Tyrion said, raising his goblet of wine. “When the news reached King’s Landing, my father…” He swallowed thickly. “He wanted to kill you, you know.”

Jon stared, hard.

“So…you swam until you could swim no longer. And miraculously, you wound up on that rock, with more air than water in your lungs. You just can’t be killed, can you?”

“That’s enough.”

“My words may ring like japes but they are not. I am thrilled to be in your presence, Jon Snow.”

Jon’s stare turned into a glower. 

Lord Tyrion started, then raised his brow in apology. To break the tension, Jon dug into his bread and pressed the mound into his mouth, chomping hungrily. The Queen’s Lord Hand watched him, but Jon paid him no mind. During their hush, the lilt of a language unknown to Jon reached their table. The Queen’s scribe and general of the Unsullied army were seated at a table nearby, speaking in hushed tones. They were beautiful, though strange to Jon’s novel eyes. Deep complexions, curling hair, dark eyes. Even their language was stunning.

“What language is that?”

Lord Tyrion raised his brow. After Jon gestured to the pair, he answered, “They speak the  _Astapori_  dialect of Valyrian.”

“They’ve come from the other side of the world.” He chuckled, still astonished by the feat Daenerys Targaryen had made. “I heard your Queen speak to her dragon in that language.”

Lord Tyrion paused. “She is Mother of Dragons. Valyrian is her mother tongue.”

 _Of course…_ At Castle Black, Lady Melisandre had spoken of magic. Could the Targaryen queen be of a similar kind?

“Does she speak anything else?”

“The Common Tongue, of course.  _Dothraki_ , as well. Missandei, however, is fluent in nineteen languages.”

“How did she come to learn so many?”

“You should ask her, yourself. Our Queen’s followers have led tragic lives. Each of the souls you see were bound in some way. To masters, to their old ways. Now, they fight in her name.” Lord Tyrion raised his goblet to his lips. “Perhaps she gives them hope.”

“Why do you follow her, then?”

He shrugged. “She’s the best chance we have.”

“ _That’s what hope is_.”

He shrugged again, gazing into his goblet, as if pained by the answers he found in his Dornish wine.  _There is always a choice. You make yours._ Though his heart sympathized for the respectable man he called a friend, Jon didn’t understand him. So, he returned to his fried egg. Soon the great hall began to empty as the day neared high noon. He watched Lord Tyrion depart with a wrinkled brow. When he glanced to the Great Table at the north end of the room, the Queen was already watching him. He nodded to her, smile reflecting hers.

 

______________________

 

Jon had to go home.

It was the only thought he’d had for days, as his injuries continued to heal. He’d no idea of what had become of Winterfell in the days following the battle. And he couldn’t ask the secretive Queen Daenerys to send a raven on his behalf. Left to his own, limited devices, on the afternoon of the twenty-third day, Jon walked the battlements for the umpteenth time.

The day was gorgeous, though the salt curled in the biting air. Dragons cried in the distance but Jon did not hear them, for now, he gazed west. Where the Red Keep scraped against the sky, it blushed red and pink. The sight was pleasing, but if he paused, he could scent the city’s stench riding in on a smooth breeze—

Jon stopped.

Queen Daenerys stood at the battlements, head bowed as if in prayer.

“Your grace.”

His voice carried on the wind, so she had already lifted her head by the time he reached her.

“Lord Snow,” she greeted. “You look well.”

“I don’t feel well.”

“If you’re ill, you’ve come to the wrong one,” she quipped, eyes smiling. “I am a queen, not a healer.”

“You may be that, as well.” 

She raised a silver pale brow, the edges of her eyes tightening.

“You took me in when you didn’t have to,” he explained. “You housed me and made sure my injuries heal, without asking me for anything in turn. You have my endless gratitude, Queen Daenerys.”

He peered at her profile, waiting for a response. She returned her gaze to his, but he didn’t understand why she was suddenly so grim.

“Over the years, I have developed a high level of hospitality in my court. You are no different from the others under my charge—”

He frowned.

“Except that you are,” she continued, then took a deep breath. “On behalf of House Targaryen, I extend my apologies to House Stark. My father’s madness took his life, but not before it took your grandfather and your uncle.”

“I didn’t come here for your apologies.” 

“But you received it, anyway. When I saved your life. When I housed you, and fed you and ensured you have what you need to heal yourself.” She paused, holding his gaze expectantly. “Are we even now?”

He chuckled, amused by what she did. But he was tempered by everything else: the shift of her body to his, the beseeching quirk of her brow, the purse of her lips. His gaze drifted to the sea as he collected himself, hoping she didn’t notice his feelings. Only when he returned to her, he realized the distrust he should have responded with, had already drifted away with the waves.

One nod relayed his agreement. She looked away. Jon was stiff to the bone, considering.

“I don’t believe you would trust my counsel,” he began. “But I am experienced in war.”

“What wars have you fought?”

“Too many.”

After a pause, her voice was quiet. “And you say you led this battle against Ramsay Bolton’s army?”

“Aye,” he answered. “We would have lost with my plans alone. It was my sister, Sansa, who led a cavalry of knights of the Vale when it looked to be over. She saved us—and if she had told me what she’d planned to do, I would have stopped her.”

Daenerys frowned doubtfully. “She sounds like a brave woman. But that is still better than ruling among mistrust.”

His skin prickled under her careful gaze. “You have a point. But I learned my lesson the hard way. Thousands of lives were lost on my command.”

“It is the way of war.” 

“It can’t be the only way.”

She only looked at him. He lowered his gaze, brow creasing with discomfort, suddenly weary.  _How has so much time passed, yet I still feel this way?_ Had the battle taken what little the mutiny had left of him?

“Lord Snow…”

He tried and failed to hide his grimace at the title. A quiet moment passed, before she surprised him.

“What would you have me do?” she queried.

“You say you’ve come to Dragonstone to begin your campaign for the Iron Throne.” He shook his head in disbelief that the phrase was even falling from his lips. “Tommen Baratheon is the king—but it is his mother who truly rules. Cersei Lannister will fight you with everything the Crown possesses.”

“I already know this. And I  _am_ prepared.”

“What of the rest, then? Wars need armies, armies need people.”

She scoffed. “People used to tell my brother the lords of  _Westeros_  made secret toasts in his name and prayed for his return. I am neither stupid nor cruel enough to believe such stories.”

Jon started, surprised.

“This will not be the first, nor the last time, that I campaign for support. A queen is nothing without her people.”

Jon had had his fair share of queens: Queen Regent Cersei Lannister’s visit to Winterfell had ended in the loss of Bran’s legs, while Queen Selyse Baratheon had terrorized Castle Black with the purge of her fire worshipping men. Yet this Queen was different than the others. Jon was moved, yet he could not lay his protest to rest, for it felt important to relay this to her.

“In that case,” he began, “you have to know where your people are,  _right now_. The Seven Kingdoms have been ravished by war for years, now. Only recently, all but the North has regained a level of stability, but under the Lannisters’ thumb.” He sighed. “You can’t show up with your foreign armies and dragons that can melt castles—and expect them to raise their banners in your name. It doesn’t work that way. Now more than ever, you’ll have to  _earn_  their trust.”

“ _Essos_  is far older than you can imagine, Jon Snow.” Her eyes had narrowed on his. “Against all odds, in a matter of years, I crossed the land from  _Pentos_  to  _Meereen_ , leading khalasars and unlikely allies. Dragons live for the first time in centuries because of my loss, my dreams, and my blood. I marched armies through slave cities, slaying the masters so newborns would never know the taste of subjugation. And the  _Dothraki_  have never crossed the sea—any sea—before me.” 

As impressive as she was, her past feats weren’t enough. Of that, Jon was sure. His own memories Beyond the Wall and at Castle Black—the mutiny at Craster’s Keep, his own mutiny, especially the betrayal that took Robb and Lady Catelyn’s lives and slayed half of the North’s bannermen…they taught him.  _The North Remembers,_ he thought.  _If they do, the other kingdoms are not far behind._ Jon greatly wished for this foreign-queen-come-home to not fall into such a fate.

“I have earned enough trust,” she declared sharply.

But Jon shook his head, deeply saddened.

“No, you haven’t.”

Her face fell—first with apprehension, then with understanding that was too unquestioning for Jon’s eyes. He dipped his head, told her he would take his leave, then turned back the way he’d come. When he returned to the castle he went to his room in the Wyndworm Tower. At his desk he unveiled a parchment, dipped a quill in an inkpot, and set to writing.

Jon wasn’t the best with words. Neither did he have the best rapport with Sansa.

But he would try.

 

____________________

 

“I shall wait.”

The hall was so quiet, the whisper set Jon aware. Pausing, he turned deliberately…and found her where he’d least expected.

“Your grace?”

At the hour of the wolf, the dark hall reminded him of nights spent patrolling the Wall at Castle Black. Even the light from the torches that lined the walls seemed to be sucked into the volcanic stone—as if the dragons carved into them, fed on the flames that gave life to their forbearers. Queen Daenerys, however, glowed like the moon—waxy and bright and warm.

“I have considered your counsel…and I think you’re right,” she started. “I shall wait to begin my conquest.”

He paused significantly, before gathering himself. “What will you do in the meantime?”

“It’s unlikely that I’ll be able to set foot on the mainland without causing alarm. Even if I were to fly with  _Drogon_ …just to catch a glimpse…I can’t assure that I’ll be safe.”

Jon frowned in sympathy.  _She still wishes for home. Does she not realize she’s found it?_ Whoever she was, Daenerys Targaryen was more gentle-hearted than most Jon had come across during his years in the Night’s Watch. The realization drew his admiration, yet his concern for her safety was far greater.

“I will help you.”

She pressed closer—big and sudden and  _heat—_ causing Jon to shuffle backward before he remembered himself.

“Help me?” she questioned. “How?”

There was an undercurrent, something charged riding below the surface of her regal questioning. Jon felt it like a  _click_  within, and suddenly he was a different person in different place—except he was  _here_ on Dragonstone and _everything_ was different.

“My father was Robert Baratheon’s friend. I know the stories of the Rebellion more intimately more than most. Yet you put them to shame.” He paused sympathetically, letting her see, letting her know. “When I return home, I will tell my people of your deeds and your desire to heal the realm. Perhaps they will support the return of your House and raise their banners for you.”

“I don’t need a guarantee,” she said, radiant with gratitude. “I am pleased enough to have your support, Jon Snow. But…what have I done to earn it?”

“You helped me.” As he shrugged, the world grew quieter. “I would like to return the favor.”

She considered this for a moment, before she replied in a hush. “Very well.” 

That was how Jon came to stand in the east wing of the Drum Tower with Daenerys Targaryen: comforted by the embrace of torchlight, gazes lifted, hearts open.

“You once told me that you’re the last Targaryen. From what I know of your House, you’re unlike any who’ve come before you. I think it’s wise to wait before starting your campaign, but I don’t think you should wait too long to show them who you are.” She seemed to swallow, thickly, but it was Jon who was powerless. “I should hope they see you.”

She whispered. “Do you wish to see me?”

“Yes.”

It was a plea, a surrender, a breath that had been ready to leave his body the moment he met her. Jon finally felt better, now that it was out. In fact, he felt alive—as alive as the buzz below his skin, the tightening in the chest, her scent clinging to his lips.

Devotion was a thrill not unfamiliar to him, but so sudden his hands trembled against her skin as he caressed her, from her cheek to her jaw to her lips. Everything was pretty, soft, yet strong. When she pressed her lips to his palm, he pulled her close, thrilling with desire as he swallowed her cry of pleasure. He came together with her, lips parting, tongues pressing, hands brushing and palming. Like the ebb and flow of the sea, they ended up dancing, swaying in the hall at the hour of the wolf, to a song no one had ever heard. Jon stepped away to twirl her and earned Daenerys’s surprised laugh. When they rejoined, Jon brushed her hair from her face, wanting to see her.

 _How could I have forgotten a woman’s touch?_  She reflected his smile. Perhaps his joy, too.  _How could I have forgotten a woman’s affection_?  It warmed him in places a fire in the hearth could never touch. He knew, as she laced her fingers with his, eyes open with honesty—that it was so good, it felt like becoming greater than himself alone.

_How could I have thought nothingness to be the end of all things?_

He vowed to never forget.

 

 

*~*~*

_The Narrow Sea_

289 AC

Winter

*~*~*

 

“If one of us leaves the other, I bet you will always love me.”

Daenerys turned from the windows looking out into the waves, to Missandei, who was seated at her desk, at the east wall. The rocking of the ship threatened to push the drafted letter and blank parchments to the floor—but neither Daenerys nor Missandei gave them their attention. Her brow was raised, as if to ask,  _Come again, your grace?_ She gave her a small smile, clasping her hands before her.

“I said so to Jon, some time before Sansa Stark sent the raven that preceded his departure for Winterfell. He gave me his rare, marvelous smile and said ‘Of course, Daenerys. You will always be my queen.’” She trailed off. “Even though he spoke the truth, it didn’t feel real. With my dragons and my armies and now him, how could I have been so lucky to have nearly all I’d ever wanted?”

Her friend gave her a look of pure compassion. “Your grace…before King Jon arrived, I would have said—”

“Missandei, please don’t—”

“He may have bent the knee, your grace, but his people will continue to call him their king. You even said you’d allow it.”

“I don’t know why,” Daenerys quipped.

“I think you do. Before he arrived, I would have advised you to be cautious. But it is the heart we speak of, which will do what it wants.” When Missandei sighed, the flames of the candles flickered before her. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. As far as I can see, he hasn’t changed.”

Wistfully, Daenerys said, “He hasn’t, has he?”

Missandei only smiled. The sight reminded Daenerys of all that she had fought for—and the blessings that had landed in her lap, as if the gods were, in fact, real. Only when she considered it, however, she realized the former and the latter were one and the same.  _Jon included._ Before she’d found him, washed up half-dead on a rock beyond the coast of the Vale, he’d been the most fruitless dream to chase. After they came together, she realized he  _had_ been the man she’d seen in her dreams for years—and she knew she loved him as much as she always had.  _I love him,_ she mused.  _It is the beginning and end of everything._ It was the reason she hadn’t hesitated to believe the growing horrors he’d described of the Night’s King and his army of dead men. The second day since his arrival to Dragonstone, she began readying her armies to depart for White Harbor, and eventually, to march to Winterfell. By the fourth day, her armies had taken to the Narrow Sea. Yet the fifth day had come, without word from him.

Daenerys shook her head. Indeed, Jon hadn’t changed, at all.

“When Grey Worm marched the Unsullied into battle against the masters,” Missandei began, “I didn’t think he would return. After all, you’d been gone for weeks. Without you, hope was hard to keep.”

From the moment she’d arrived from her hellish experience with the great  _khals_ of the  _Dothraki Sea,_ only to find the next bit of hell that had been unleashed on  _Meereen_  in her absence, Daenerys had chosen not to feel remorseful. She simply returned to her balcony, climbed onto  _Drogon’s_  back, and headed into battle to finish what the Unsullied had started. All the same, hearing of Missandei’s struggles with Lord Tyrion and the masters before her return, continued to pull at her heart strings. She crossed to the desk and took Missandei’s hand. She gave her a small, appreciative smile.

“I worried for him until I began to mourn him. I grew sick, because I thought that even if he returned, he might not be same. But he was. I have only loved one man, but he has taught me so much. If the bond is real, separation cannot change it.”

Moved, Daenerys squeezed her hand.

“My dearest Missandei…you  _are_  my most trusted advisor.”

Missandei dipped her head modestly—just before three heavy knocks sounded on the door _._ Daenerys paused. She knew exactly who was on the other side. Missandei’s brows raised in equal parts suspicion and support, when Daenerys nodded to her. The great door groaned when she pulled it open, revealing Jon on the other side. Daenerys raised a brow coolly, but he said nothing: his deep eyes were somber, but stricken with something strong and quieting.

“Missandei,” she called, “please take your leave. If I need you, I shall find you.”

Within moments Missandei exited her cabin, but not before sending Jon a heavy glance. As she passed, he nodded to her. Then he stepped in, Daenerys closed the door, and the world dipped into a sudden hush. Moments passed as neither spoke. It reminded her so much of the first time—and the last. With Jon, she had learned the quiet. Now, she knew it well.

She kept her eyes on his as she returned to the desk and seated herself. Jon followed, step by step, and stopped to brace his weight against the frame at the foot of her feather bed. Though Jon towered over her on his feet, Daenerys enjoyed the stretch of her neck as she looked up at him. The gesture was comfortable; the desire to worship her equal, familiar.

But he closed his eyes, as if to avoid her gaze.

“Jon…”

He raised his eyes to hers. “It’s hard to look at you, knowing what I’ve done.” 

“You seemed just fine when you first arrived.”

“I didn’t,” he murmured. “And I wasn’t.”

She frowned, but said nothing.

“The whole journey from Winterfell, I thought about what I’d done and how to explain myself. But now that I’m here, I don’t know where to begin. Because I still can’t understand why I never returned to Dragonstone, even if to see you for a few days. I never sent a raven, even once…”

 _So, why didn’t you?_ Daenerys had grown used to this line of questioning. When the moon had turned once without word from him, she thought him dead. By the third turn of the moon, she’d known him well enough to know that he had lived. She stopped waiting for a raven with the wax seal of House Stark. Soon thereafter, she began readying her armies to march to King’s Landing.  _Now you’ve returned with nothing but confused murmurings on your lips._  The irony did not miss its mark.

“I know,” he murmured, eyes oozing sympathy. “I should have—”

“We know what you should have done,” she snapped, blinking back tears. “Why didn’t you? Send a raven?”

“I wasn’t sure about my heart,” he answered. “I thought we’d done it all together. But we hadn’t. When I returned to Winterfell, it resembled the home I’d left years ago. The same one I had thought, for a long time, was lost forever. I realized there was so much I wanted you to see, so much I wanted to do together…and it terrified me. What if something happens and you’re gone?  _You’ll never come back_. What if  _I_  did that to you? Then I wonder what it even matters.”

Recalling his struggles, Daenerys frowned in sympathy.

“When that comes, I’m not a king anymore,” he continued, solemn. “My father used to say a lord’s people are his children. They’re all his charge to protect, to bring to justice, and to ensure the decency of life. It took months for my vassal lords to bury their grievances—enough to sit in my great hall without a fight. If I don’t rule my people well, none of this matters. So, I had to stop thinking about it.”

Daenerys struggled to speak, throat tightened. “So, you did,” she surmised, and received his weary nod.

“Though I ruled, I felt nothing, Dany. Not until that last, terrible storm hit. I had a bad dream and I felt  _fear,_ deeper than I had since the mutiny…” He trailed off. After a moment of debating with herself, Daenerys took his hand and returned his grateful smile. “I realized, too late, that I had left you. Though I hadn’t meant to—when you’re right in my heart—I left you…”

It was as if he knew how much pain she’d known during the time of their separation. He was as gentle and thoughtful as ever, and she revered him for it. Thanked the gods for bringing him to her from the start. Yet he needed to hear the words from her.

“At first, I was angry,” she admitted, recalling the burning ache. “It surprised me so much, I wondered what power could a man hold in my bed, to warrant not irritation, but censure, fury?” She met his eyes. “My desire to have you with me ran deeper than my embarrassment and my missing you. That was how I knew, just like you, of how deeply I care for you.”

He smiled, honest eyes soft on hers.

“I could have summoned you, all of these moons, yet I chose not to. Do you know why?”

“Aye,” he said, swallowing. “You love me.”

The truth hurt, it was so big and buoyant in her chest. It took to her throat—and tears came to her eyes again. Jon was a strong, steady force as he marveled at her. The feeling pulsed again; she released a breath as she pressed the pad of her thumb to his, eyes searching his. “I know the fear you speak of. When I first brought you here, I wanted to share every corner of Dragonstone with you. I nearly did.”

The thought hung in the air; romps around the castle a blazing stripe of memory. Daenerys smiled when he blushed, and marveled at his handsome face growing soft.

“After the anger faded, I felt embarrassed. I tried to forget you. But I soon realized you were part of me, and that would never change. I wished you well, before I let you go.”

He frowned.

 _I’m sorry,_ she thought.  _But it is true._

“I have known worse pains, Jon. With the turn the realm is taking, there may be more to endure in the future.” Though saddening, the thought led to a better one. “Perhaps your arrival was not an inconvenience after all,” she smiled. “I am happy to have your support in my campaign. Truly.”

Jon’s eyes were bemused as he shrugged. It was the one that said,  _What else would I do?_

“If you want to seat the Throne, I’d rather no one else.” But she felt the change when he shifted and frowned in tandem. “I won’t ask your forgiveness again. I’m not sure that’s a thing you can give me. I only ask you to let me in, to love you. I never stopped, Dany. Out of all the things I’m good at—” She met his eyes; he tucked his chin, eyes of coal churning. “I would do nothing but this.”

“Who could love a dragon?” she asked, reaching up to trace the scar below his eye.

“I can.”

She had asked him, so many times, and still, his answer remained the same. He pressed his forehead to hers, and she felt the heat of him surround her; smiled at the scratch of his beard on her palm. He took her other hand, fingers lacing so slowly the press of his skin took her breath away. “I’ve missed you.”  

“I missed you,” he returned, tangling the fingers of his other hand in her hair. She tilted her head back and met the question in his eyes. They were frozen for a moment. Then a swirl of warmth rose in her stomach as she watched his gaze heat up.  _Yes._ She threw her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close. Hands warm and firm on her, palming her neck, thumbs tracing the curves of her back, palming her sides. She parted her thighs, drew him close, the shape and weight of his hips so familiar, a wash of pleasure curled through her body; at her throat, in her chest where she felt the vibration of his moan when she pulled his lower lip between her teeth, at her hips where his hands shoved the ends of her gown away, fingers seeking warmth, thumbs pressing into sensitive flesh.

He was a frenzy of desire and intention, one moment sucking at her neck, the next moment dipping his tongue into the warm softness of her mouth.  _Yes,_ she thought again, pressing her hand to the back of his dark head. She was his cup to drink from, so long as he replenished. And he did. When he was mostly done removing her smallclothes, she pushed his hands away so he could focus on his breeches. She finished undressing herself; watched with wide eyes as he undid his with deliberate movements. Longing for his touch, she put his hands on her again and swallowed his groan when he took her lips.

She felt his lust, in his lips and there in his fingers, collecting her wetness, thumb rubbing circles at her clit. A finger entered her and she moaned his name. He licked into her mouth again, kissed her hard when he entered her again with second one. The stretch felt so good, she felt her hands tremble where they gripped his muscled shoulders, and trailed the sharpness of his hip, palming, feeling blessed to receive him. She wanted to hold him, to feel the heat of him, the weight of him. Even the barrier of fabric drew his hiss, earning a laugh from her; he chuckled and pressed his hips into her hand. She pulled him out of the smallclothes, flushed at the heat, the soft skin, felt herself get wetter, pressed her tongue into his mouth, tasting deepening moans. She whimpered, clit throbbing below his thumb, pulsing around his thrusting fingers, wishing for him to go deeper, to pull her open.

She liked this—had missed the feel of him, the spark of connection. Loved the sound of his desire, the flex in his hands, palming her with strength and want. Loved the breathy sound of his desire. She stroked him, wishing to press him closer, but he stilled her hip with his free hand, bent on fucking her good with his fingers. Breathless, she tilted her head back and preened at the continued attention of his lips at her ear, at her neck, the soft rise between her breasts. She moaned, held the back of his head, hips widening to absorb the stretch of his fingers in her cunt, pleasure building, tears springing at her eyes as she pressed her lips to his hair.

It had been so long, but she hadn’t forgotten. It was this—all the time. He was right where she’d missed him, right where he was perfect. She was home, he was home. So why did it hurt? Why wasn’t it enough?

She slipped her feeble hands to his chest and pushed until he pulled away. Slowly, he raised his questioning eyes to hers. Though his desires were clear, Daenerys was unsure of her own. What did she want?  _Something more,_ her mind supplied.  _Of us, both. For us, both._ When she finally spoke, her voice was strained, quiet.

“It’s not enough.”

He blinked, eyes confused. “Enough what?”

She pushed at him again. He stepped away, providing her enough room to think clearly as the cold seeped in the distance between them. She tried not to avoid his gaze, but it was hard, so she busied herself with her gown, ignoring her smallclothes altogether. As Jon tucked himself back into his breeches, the ship swayed, and then realization dawned on her.

“Of what it was before,” she answered, feeling heavy with change. “It’s not the same, Jon. I don’t think it’s supposed to be.”

But he merely looked at her. She returned his stunned gaze, waiting for him to see the truth. There hadn’t been much change, and yet there had been. Even though her heart was tearing yet again, it didn’t hurt the same way. She yearned to touch him but would not; instead she whispered a final command.

“You should go.”

The high of union had faded. Now Jon was pulled tight with confusion, tension, distance. But when he lowered his eyes, she knew he would save his questions for later. The cabin was quiet as he took his leave; making the closing of the door painfully loud. Daenerys stood, braced against the desk for a moment longer, before the restlessness in her heart took her limbs. She picked up the weathered parchment from the desk and unrolled it with tense fingers, musing. As her armies ventured the Narrow Sea to White Harbor, change was suddenly cresting at all sides. Yet between her and Jon, one thing remained true.

 _If the bond is real, separation cannot change it_. She shook her head, eyeing her carefully picked words.  _So why isn’t it enough to continue as we had, before?_

The parchment was starched and dotted with inkblots, a half-written draft to the Lady of Winterfell. From the moment Daenerys had thought to write to her, she knew it was unlikely Sansa Stark would want to accept it. Still, the urge to explain herself had come with Jon’s dizzying, complicating arrival to Dragonstone, so she’d cursed her way through it.

Daenerys blew an irritated breath. A glance to the window revealed the dark, angry clouds gathering on the horizon. The storm, however, motivated her further. After lighting a few more candles, she inked her quill, then set to finishing the letter.

The night was long.

 

 


	2. Take Charge of Your Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present: Daenerys arrives at Winterfell. Meets the family and a strange character.  
> In the past: On Dragonstone, they receive a letter from Sansa Stark. Jon goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long delays are a pain in the butt, so apologies are in order! (If you forgot, I'm glad to remind you that A Long Way Home is still kicking!) Chapter 2 took so long I was exhausted near the end, but I'm happy with how it turned out. It totally got out of control and is approximately 12k, so read at your discretion. XD
> 
> If you do, I hope you enjoy!

 

* ~ *~ *

_The Kingsroad_

289 AC

Winter

* ~ *~ *

 

The kingsroad was the pride of Westeros, a feat of transportation rivaled only by the stone roads the Valyrians had stretched between conquered cities in _Essos_. And of course, the stone roads of the Eunuch Kings of _Yi Ti_. King Jaeherys’s long and prosperous reign had ordered the building of the road: ensuring increased mobility and speeds of travel and therefore, the flight of people, coin and goods. The kingsroad was a famed source of advanced Westerosi society.

However, by the second afternoon Daenerys rode with her armies, it had become rather disappointing.

The snowfall was torrential and unending, creating snowbanks twenty feet deep that had slowed their progress along the rushing waters of the White Knife. Once they reached the kingsroad yesterday afternoon, there had thankfully been enough room for fifty to ride abreast. However, the lack of travelers concerned her: towns and inns were dotted along the road, but all remained empty. The first spot of life had come in the grey smoke that rose from the lonely Castle Cerwyn.

_Don’t think about him._

Though reminders wrung her path, Daenerys would not think of Jon—and had refused, for days. Instead, she pondered the lack of animal life and the snow’s stillness. She had begun to wonder where the commonfolk had gone, when Ser Jorah stopped his mount beside hers. Lord Tyrion huffed to her left as he, too, stopped. 

“We’re half a day’s ride from Winterfell,” he said, above the wind. “House Cerwyn rules these lands. They’re one of the closest bannermen to House Stark.”

“I heard that even after the war, they remained loyal to the Starks.” Lord Tyrion eyed the flight of ravens to the rookery with uncertainty. “Their words are _Honed and Ready_.”

“I trust they will be,” Daenerys returned. “If we stop for an hour or two, we’ll make it to Winterfell before nightfall. Ser Jorah, report it to Grey Worm and Qotho. No one steps within five hands from the road. We leave in an hour, on my word.”

“Yes, your grace,” he answered with a dip of his head, before he turned his mount away and rode off. Sighing deeply, Daenerys turned to Lord Tyrion. His face had been grim for days, since they’d landed on the mainland at White Harbor. She did not have to guess, to know something was eating away at him. After tightening her sealskin gloves, she dismounted her pale mare, then helped Lord Tyrion to the ground. Amused by his averted eyes, she chuckled behind her lips. She was startled by a sudden voice.

“How long until we resume?”

Jon Snow had always been sudden as a shadow. It was what had made him strong in battle, a skilled swordsman who was light on his feet. Yet Daenerys had always heard him and seen him. She remembered hearing him around hallway corners; feeling the press of his emotions when he entered her room, every room; feeling the rush of his intelligent mind at work during small council meetings. 

Yet not hearing him, now, only served to irk her in a way that felt much like a broken heart. Armoring herself with it, she quirked her brow at him, as if to say _Go Away._ Though she hadn’t expected Jon to smile, she was surprised by the lowering of his eyes, as if to say _Hear Me_. Daenerys held onto her mare’s reins, licking the grit of distrust from her teeth.

“An hour,” she answered. “Will it be worth the trouble to tell them we’re here?”

“No,” he said, his gaze tracking to the castle. “Sansa likely sent word to the lords of the North in preparation.”

“Good.”

“…But if she hadn’t, Lady Cerwyn will know what we’ve done soon enough.”

He hadn’t said anything wrong, yet her gaze had turned into a glower. He took a short breath.

“With respect, Daenerys… We are half a day’s ride to Winterfell, to my _home_. How long are we going to be this way? When you’re not angry, you’re ignoring me. When you’re not ignoring me…you’re sad.”

“ _And?”_ She was the Queen, who couldn’t afford to be sad. Daenerys was angry, filled with the fire that was hers—but was she burning? On the edge of the kingsroad, she suddenly felt like an egg; her shell cracked on Jon’s persistence, flesh cooking on dragonflame. As the wind picked up and kicked at his hair, he blinked profusely to see her and put a gloved hand to his chest.

“ _And this hurts me, too.”_

It was if her heart was in her throat, straining with fear or revelation—Daenerys couldn’t tell. Guilt pulsed in her chest as her lips worked, useless. Silence stretched between them, before, stiff as a board, he shuffled away to speak with his men. When he’d disappeared behind the second row of horses, Daenerys released a hot breath. Clenching her hands for warmth, she pressed to the edge of the road and stared into the bony tree line.

“You two are making everyone miserable.”

Silver-pale brow quirked, she turned to Lord Tyrion as he reached the edge. “Excuse me?”

“Jon Snow broods handsomely, but you’re beginning to surpass him. It makes no sense to me, why you choose to reward his return with a chill to rival the North.” When Daenerys rolled her eyes, his only narrowed. “You two were once a joy to be around. Annoying in your happiness, but enjoyable. Now, you’re making everyone miserable. Worst of all, you are both the source of each other’s unhappiness!”

“My lord,” she stressed, “I don’t know what you think you see, but you are wrong.”

“Am I?” he questioned. “There is no point in fighting those we love, when we’ll soon come to fight the dead.” He shook his head. “There’s no point at all, your grace.” 

She stared particularly hard at the tree line. It was still, but for the odd drop of pounds, falling from twisted branches. Lord Tyrion went silent beside her, for which she was grateful.

“I see what fighting has done to the North,” she said instead, turning once more to the castle creeping above the tree line. “The snow may have buried the evidence of war, but it’s in the air.” 

“Or perhaps, you sense the Old Gods watching us.”

_Don’t think about him._

“I would rather the Old Gods than the Others,” she said, “wouldn’t you? Even the Seven, I would prefer. Now, where are the common people?”

“You won’t find them. They’ve shuttered themselves in the castles and houses of their lords—the ones who opened their gates, anyway.” 

She started. “So, the ones who failed to make it behind castle walls will perish?”

“Perhaps,” he said, dipping his head in the way that irked her.

“Are you suggesting this makes sense? As far as I can see, _everything_ has stopped.” She shifted closer, speaking in confidence. “What _is_ this?”

“It’s your northern most kingdom, your grace. But I’m not a Northman. Why won’t you ask _him_?”

The nudge was supposed to be playful, even gentle, but it only jostled the frayed edges of her heart. Daenerys turned away and closed her eyes, enjoying the slice of the wind on her face. It cast the smell of horse behind them, which she took with gratitude. The world was silent, before Lord Tyrion followed the pause with sudden, admirable gusto.

“I suppose we should move onto my secrets, then. You wanted to know what’s been bothering me. You may know this but here it is…” He swallowed thickly. “I killed my father.”

His voice was swallowed by the wind lips moving to the creak of bony trees, the distant cry of ravens. But Daenerys heard Lord Tyrion, as if it was her own heart she held instead of his. She saw Lord Tyrion, walking the path of pain all children were sent to, guilty and confused and yearning for forgiveness. Daenerys had nothing but compassion for her him. _Perhaps Lord Tyrion was a child when he took his father’s life_ , she thought. _But children grow, and children learn._

She held his eyes, steadily. “What did he do?”

There was a pause, and then Lord Tyrion’s shift into soft gratitude, lines softening around his green and blue eyes. Daenerys nodded mutely, suddenly feeling burdened with the weight of his secret. But more importantly, she felt an urge to know _why_ they were both kinslayers. At another time, the matter would have terrified her—but now, Daenerys knew of darker and better things. Now, she wanted to know how—in all the Known World—they had come to know each other.

“In short,” he started mutely, “he always hated me for being a dwarf and blamed me for my mother’s death. Cersei, as well, but not Jaime. There might have been a time I thought Tywin Lannister loved me….but he never did. When he conspired to kill all of the Starks, I was near my wit’s end. But in the end, my personal grievances caused me to pull the trigger of that crossbow. My father turned my lover against me and tried to have me killed, as the price for Joffrey’s death at his wedding to Margaery Tyrell.” When he paused, she took a deep breath with him. “Though he knew I hadn’t done it, he thought to finally get rid of me and make a gesture of the Crown’s justice.”

“Our fathers were evil men,” Daenerys said, with finality. She had heard enough. “We will not follow in their stead, Lord Tyrion. We will make the world better than they found it. Certainly, better than they left it.”

But Lord Tyrion smiled, in a way she did not understand. 

“Perhaps a year ago I would have agreed. Not so, anymore. Compared to what I’ve seen in _Essos,_ of the Elephants and Tigers in Volantis, the masters of Slaver’s Bay, the sellsword companies...” He nodded to himself. “My father was a better man, I believe. Though he was cruel, he loathed chaos. Though he took control of the Crown, he succeeded in holding the realm together with the only powers he believed in: his hands, his spies, our House’s over mined gold. I think he was a better man than they were. But thank you, Daenerys.”

Her eyes had narrowed at the mention of the Crown, but as Lord Tyrion finished, she raised her brows, aglow with bemusement. _Have you found peace, my friend?_ His smile was small but genuine. Daenerys returned it with her own, and soon they returned to the trees, shivering in the cold.  

“And it would be great if you could…”

Crossing her arms, she turned to him.

“…work it out with Jon. If you two can’t make it...”

 _Crunch._

With a wince, he fell silent as a deadly large icicle fell twenty feet deep into the snowbank. He turned to Daenerys. She did not reply—only shifted in the knee-deep snow—then walked away.

 

 

 

 

 

//

_Dragonstone_

288 AC

Autumn

\\\

 

“The Real North,” Daenerys repeated slowly, as if trying out the words. “It’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?”

Jon couldn’t remain on Dragonstone without contributing. At first, Daenerys had warily agreed to Jon to training with a few of her bloodriders. He had been wounded to find the weaknesses in his fighting style, right after an _arakh_ had found it first. Once he had proven to be a sound lesson for their battles ahead, however, she had set him up with a group of men which her captain, Qotho, called his first bloodriders. Today, Qotho gave him a good, blood-rushing fight. Jon had tried to thank him for it, before Daenerys had laughed warmly and told him the word didn’t exist in _Dothraki_. They had just returned from the courtyard, when she’d teased him about Westerosi knights. _Even Ser Jorah had his flaws,_ she’d said _. Especially him._ Jon had said, _Joke’s on you. There are no knights in the Real North._

Yet Daenerys thought it was presumptuous. Jon laughed until he was nearly breathless. As he caught his breath, the smoke from the fire in the hearth lingered on his tongue, and he smiled as Daenerys’s chuckle filled his ears.

“Aye,” Jon replied, noting the small table between them. “But it rings true. The people are different, of course. The air is different, as well. Everything feels older, wiser. Sleepy, even. Perhaps that is what had fooled the Free Folk for so long. Why they thought it was safe to live so far north, as if the Old Gods were watching over them. Perhaps they were gods, but not those they prayed to.”

Speaking with Daenerys had proved to be effortless over the weeks. They had spent late nights and early mornings highlighting sleepy anecdotes with curious brushes, an amused flick of the nose, a kiss at the brow. The castle was otherwise slow between her small council meetings and his swordplay, so once their duties were sought to, they rushed to meet again. Jon had spent so much time in her chambers that, as the cold reached Dragonstone, he had come to know the blue turning of the light at the morning and the late evening, soaking into the black stone walls.

And so, the words had slipped out before he could stop them. There was a pause, and then the shift of fabric as she pressed closer across the table, touching his arm. He met her gaze.

“You once told me that Stannis Baratheon defeated the Wildling army at Castle Black,” she said. “What happened to you, afterward?”

Though a fire roared in the hearth a few hands away, Daenerys’s chambers were still chilled enough to cause a shiver. However, it was _memory_ that raised the hairs on Jon’s skin: the memory of the horror that descended on Hardhome when the snows pushed in. The panicked shrieks on the north side of the gates, the sudden silence. _Thousands of children had died and turned._ Yet in the moment, the memory was not so immediate. He was wondering what had caused the reprieve, when Daenerys whispered, her refined tone startled.

“You went to war, again? So soon?”

For the first time, since Ser Davos advised Jon to fail again, the words came to him, poised for him to grab. _You can rest, now._ Yet the time had not come. Instead, grateful for Daenerys’s compassion, he nodded to her.

“After the battle at Castle Black, I was elected the Lord Commander. I had hoped to improve the Night’s Watch, to ready us for the wars ahead. At the time, I couldn’t have called Tormund a friend, but he was. He told me of the Free Folk that had scattered after the battle. It was a settlement on the Shivering Sea of some ten thousand, called Hardhome. We’d gone to ferry them below the Wall and house them in the Watch’s remaining castles…”

“They didn’t make it,” Daenerys surmised, voice pitched deep. Jon could only nod once. “So, the stories are true?”

“What stories?”

Daenerys quirked her brow at him. “ _Essos_ has their fire maeges and Red Priests, ghost grass and _dragons_ of Valyria. _Westeros_ appears to have the extraordinary, as well. Grumpkins, snarks, ice spiders. They’re real, then?”

“You would like that,” he chuckled, “wouldn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You would fight all of them. And you would win.”

She paused, touched, but she did not deny what he saw.

“I see why your followers believe in you.”

Jon’s lips curled into a smile, as he watched her accept his admiration. Her eyes widened, deep breath filling her chest, as her warm hands tightened around his. _I think I love you._ The thought was as sudden as a gust of wind, curling up his throat with tickling sweetness, so quickly he pursed his lips shut. Thankful that Daenerys’s eyes were on their hands, he continued in a shaky breath.

“I’ve never seen grumpkins, snarks or ice spiders. Direwolves, however—they’re real. Whitewalkers, the Others—they’re real. The thirteenth Lord Commander, who sacrificed his men to them—he’s real. Beyond the Wall and at Castle Black, the dead are burned.”

“How did you _survive_?”

“I fought them,” he said, noting the way his words lingered between them like a _vow_. She blinked slowly, as if she heard it, too. “I ran. In the end, we saved three thousand.”

“Jon…I’m so sorry.”

 _What for?_ he wondered. _My failures are mine alone._ Having grown heavy from swordplay and tired from the night, he scrubbed a hand down his face.  

“This is where my story ends tonight, Daenerys.”

“You wouldn’t let me sleep when you wanted to know how my dragons were born. I lost valuable hours to your questions, Jon Snow.” He shook his head as she protested. “I just…would like to know what happened.”

“To me?” he challenged.

“Yes,” she returned. “Though terrifying, I don’t believe this skirmish—”

“It was an ambush.”

“—with the Others,” she pressed, “is what hurt you.”

 _Hurt_. 

Jon was shocked by her striking use of the word. A moment passed, neither tight nor tense, as he returned his tired mind to the past. Thinking of the weeks between Hardhome and his final day at the Wall never failed to cut to the bone. It was weeks of tireless work and negotiations and peace-keeping, always looking over his shoulder, trust waning with each scheming conversation between his men. _Wun Wun,_ he thought, recalling the scream of bloody murder that had pierced the cold night. His lungs had burned with the effort to reach the courtyard. _Olly. Bowen Marsh. Yarwyck._ Their blades had been sharp, but Jon had never felt the fourth knife.  

Then came Daenerys’s stunned, blinking whisper. “All…alright, then. You don’t have to answer. But you should know…if I could bring justice to all who wronged you…”

Jon was hushed her as he shifted to his feet. He slid his fingers into the hairs at her nape, before he gave her shoulders a comforting squeeze.

“I wouldn’t need it,” he answered, noticing the newness of this truth.

“And why not?”

Daenerys was wonderful; almost offended that he refused her warm offer of help. Jon traced the curve of her jaw and tilted her head up to see her eyes. From the moment they’d met, she had called for his trust—at times with a word and other times without one. Even after he’d given it without realizing, she’d proven herself to be _so_ trustworthy. Now, it made the uncertainty around the realization easier to bear, that he would not need retribution for the terrible ugliness that had broken his body and his family. Smiling through the calming of his heart, he teased, “You’ll know of why, once I do, Daenerys. I’m sure of it.”

Long moments later, Jon returned to his rooms in the Wyndworm tower on the other end of the castle. Thoroughly dried out for the evening, he tumbled into his feather bed with quickly quieting thoughts. As he burrowed under his furs and curled into himself, he felt good—so good, contentment sunk into his bones. He drifted and soon, his thirtieth night as a lover came to an end. 

The first fortnight into their relationship, Daenerys had displayed a complete lack of modesty that, afterward, he came to realize ran as deep as the _fire_ in her veins. It thrilled him more than anything and relayed the passion he had long thought had died with Ygritte. After following it, he found more of the world’s beauty in her laughter, the brush of her fingertips at his brow, the press of her lips to his palms. And more, in the way she fucked him. Privacy became an allowance between them, a gesture of the affection they shared.

However, it meant that soon, she started pushing their boundaries.

When he fucked her with his fingers on the thirtieth night, she tried to remove his shirt—and he jerked from her touch so suddenly it almost ended their tryst. To his gratitude, she took his hint; he shivered at the brush of her fingers in his hair, followed the parting of her thighs, feeling the hot press of her hips at his. As she led him into her embrace again, he pressed his lips to her neck and held her tightly, sinking into oneness… For days afterward, she appeared during his swordplay sessions in Visenya’s Courtyard. With the turning of the days, as her intelligent eyes began to make note of his movements, her approval soon became admiration. He couldn’t help but show off for her, to exult with a flush to rival her rosy cheeks… Yet, Jon got a sense that she was waiting for something _of his ways_ to reveal itself to her. Of what specifically, he did not know.

A few times—on the thirty-third night, the thirty-fifth night, the thirty-ninth night—when he’d spent hours in his rooms reading or sleeping, she arrived with two knocks on his door. Her confidence was unprecedented, yet he was most surprised with himself: despite his childhood in the North, he found her lack of modesty to be a dizzying strength than a weakness. Jon had never exulted in one’s gaze as he did Daenerys’s. It felt good to be looked upon by her; to be seen and known and desired by such an extraordinary woman.

But when she wasn’t looking his way, the tightness in her violet eyes dispelled him. They looked the same as when she’d asked, _What hurt you?_

On the days his wounds burned, he wondered, _Will she find it?_

  

________________

 

 

Most days, however, Jon couldn’t care to tip-toe around her; for the ease between them was what enchanted him most.

That was how he found himself on the forty-fifth night: on his knees at the foot of her feather bed, riding the pleasure that burst from his mouth to his cock—tongue pressing heavily, lustfully, into the slick folds of her cunt. Holding her to the bed with the free hand, he used the fingers of the other to circle her opening, pausing to flick the bud that caused her shaking moans. The sudden squeeze of her thighs around his head punched a weak moan from his chest, and he pressed shaking fingers to her mound, entering her with two fingers—and with a deep, wet breath, flicked his tongue at her nub in a dizzying motion. He felt equally blessed and terrified, as if drinking from the world’s most divine bath. Her slender fingers in his hair curled, then pulled, and after a deep thrust and suck, nose nudging her folds, her opening, she cried out long and high, coming perfectly in his mouth. The daze of heat hadn’t ridden through him, yet. It lit his hands—he couldn’t take them off her. He brushed his hands along her skin, breath reverent against her inner thigh, the curling silver-pale hairs on her cunt, the soft flesh of her belly. Her hand remailed in his hair, holding his crown. He closed his eyes at the touch, loving so much and feeling so loved.

“Jon.”

She tried to tug him up, so she could take him in her mouth. But he couldn’t move, wouldn’t move. The words were sticking in his throat. He had to say it.

“Daenerys…” He puffed a large, grateful breath. “I am yours. I’m pretty sure I was always yours.”

With one final tug, she pulled him and stared. He stared back to let her see and know. Then he kissed her with all the passion she inspired. After pulling away, she kissed his brow.  

“Then show me.”

Jon paused. “What?”

“Show me what you’ve been hiding under your clothes.”

He reared back until he was on his feet, gazing at her with unfathomable eyes. Though she lay before him, easy with her nudity, strengthened by what she wanted, she was made vulnerable by the request.

“I want to know every part of you.”

She was aware of how hard this would be for him. Her understanding and desire for closeness softened him, revealed the aching grief that had never fully healed.

She him back and soothed it, cradled his heart, wrapped her arms around him. He kissed her and her hands slid to his front, palming, thumbs stroking, so tantalizingly close to his skin. A moment passed in which he said, _Yes,_ before sacred silence subsumed and fabric shifted as he pulled his tunic overhead. At once, her breath caught. Jon took a mighty breath, feeling himself curling in. Yet as compassion grew in Daenerys’s eyes, his shame waned. She flattened her hand against his belly, and her eyes kept to his as her fingers traced upward—a thumb stroking the edge of a wound. Jon heard her suck in a breath as he did, shocked at how he’d been broken.  

There was no need for even the smallest tear, because he was loved.

He knew this, in the way Daenerys kissed his brow, every scar and every wound. Lurching, his heart hurt so good—and he suddenly recalled clinging to her while they flew on _Drogon’s_ back, racing the sun’s descent.

_You are my match._

As if she heard him, she pressed her lips to a wound below his ribs, speaking into his skin. “I am not afraid of you. Nor am I afraid for you. You are the strongest, the bravest, the greatest of men, Jon. I admire you. I respect you.” She met his eyes. “I am yours.”

He knew the friendly brush of goodness. He knew gentleness, so unprecedented a man could surprise himself. He knew the ways kindness could shake the world, in a breath, a gesture, a smile. All that moved him, Daenerys reflected. Not once, nor twice. _Always._ The realization took his breath away, humbled him into a trembling stone, vibrating with the warmth of his love, her love.

And Jon knew the way to live free. 

 _Truly seek,_ he thought, marveling at her. _And be seen._

 

________________

 

Much was special on Dragonstone.

Aegon’s Chamber of the Painted Table was as haunting and powerful as the legends described. The formidable battlements that wound from the sea, up rocky hills into the pastured land of the courtyard, could only be the creation of Valyrian sorcery. As were the black halls, upon which talons, sharp teeth and blazing eyes of dragons were carved. Much of the castle was fearsome and strange, carved into the likeness of their Targaryen forbearers.

The caves, however, were Jon’s favorite aspect of the island.

He and Daenerys had discovered the first cave off the north edge of the island, not far from the docks. For weeks afterward, they‘d made a game of finding private spots, should they ever need it. On the fortieth day, they had skimmed the edge of the water past docks on the east end of the island, up to the north end. Jon had ventured into an alcove a few hands from the receding tide, with Daenerys just behind. The alcove had suddenly opened into a cold, echoing cave—the kind that made the eyes widen in wonder. As if silenced by some sacredness, they shuffled about in the sand, twisting to catch the torchlight dance off the eerie walls. They shone black like oil and looked as smooth as…

_Dragonglass._

On the fortieth day, Jon had managed two great feats. After explaining his experience with dragonglass Beyond the Wall, he’d made a jape of the crazed ways wights moved, feigning to capture her with excitement he would have found misplaced only months ago. When he caught her and twirled her about, he enjoyed the way her laughter lingered with the waves. Once they were out on the water again, watching the sun’s descent to the horizon, he had been so struck by the thought of _home_ that he recalled the letter he’d penned to Sansa. He told Daenerys that it was still on his desk, after all this time, because from the moment he sat down to write it, it had felt like a betrayal of her trust.

Therefore, it was strange that, seven days later, Lord Varys found them in their new favorite location.

“Your grace,” he said, bowing his head to her, then Jon. “Lord Snow.”

Daenerys had noticed his pallid skin, too. “Is it urgent, Lord Varys?” 

In answer, he produced a rolled scroll from his fur-lined sleeves. “A raven, from Winterfell.” 

Jon took the scroll. The wax seal snapped under his shaking fingers, echoing faintly as Lord Varys’s retreating steps faded. The message was short and taut, written in Sansa’s controlled and flowing script, which he read aloud.

 

            _To the Dragon Queen,_

_I see that Winterfell has drawn your attention. I don’t wish to offend, but despite your efforts, my lords believe your letter to be probing, even threatening. If you wish to take Winterfell in your endeavors to claim the Crown, I encourage you to begin before the storms worsen. For if you wait too long, you may receive Stannis Baratheon’s same fate, and freeze before you’ve even laid eyes on the First Keep._

 

“Foolish,” was the first word past Jon’s lips, as he paused at one of the last lines. “We shouldn’t have sent a raven.”

“Why not?” Daenerys questioned. “We were right not to mention you, to be cautious. And it’s gone perfectly. The men who captured you aren’t aware that you live. Your sister still rules the North from Winterfell, which means all is moving along well after the battle. You should be…I don’t know… Happy.”

Jon’s expression was flat. “I had not expected her to threaten you.”

“She’s the last of her name, yet she still has the courage to fight for her home and her people. I admire her for it.” She shrugged at his dubious silence. “I know your relationship with your sister is still strained…but I don’t wish the same for us.”

Still, he said nothing, but he felt his eyes glowing. Her smile was soft.

“Sansa will come to know that you’re alive,” she finished. “Which means that she and I will come to know each other. Don’t you think?”  

Bemused and lightheaded, Jon nodded to her. After blinking the love from his eyes, he returned to the last line.   

 

 _However, my brother and sister urge me to take your words as they are. Whether you wish to befriend or make an enemy of House Stark, do what you must. The North welcomes you._

_\--Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell_  

 

Jon gasped.

“What is it?”

“Arya and Bran are alive.”

“…What?”

“Of all my brothers and sisters, they were the only two who never showed. You wouldn’t have been notified when they returned to Winterfell. But it would have made such news throughout the North that once a moon or two turned, Sansa would have been _proud._ She would mention them in passing to confuse you, but I know _. Arya and Bran are alive._ ” The words kept catching in his throat. “Daenerys…”

She was smiling at him, but her voice was quiet. “Are you happy, now?”

Jon paused, before answering, “Yes.”

“Good. I’m happy for you.”

“I know.” He rolled the scroll closed and held it out for her to take. “Thank you for this.”  

But she shook her head, gesturing for him to keep it. After she threaded her arm through his, they started down the beach again. When a cold wind pushed in form the Narrow Sea, tousling her silver-pale hair across her shoulders, her eyes smiled at him.

“We mustn’t waste time, my love. What more do we have left to do? What else would you like to see of the castle?”

“I’ve seen all I could want, I believe.” He laced their fingers together, watching her dubiously. “Why do we have to rush?”

“Don’t be silly, Jon. Isn’t it obvious? You’re going home.”

“Daenerys…”

When she swallowed thickly, he knew parting would be as difficult as he’d feared. _Perhaps I feared it all along._ He almost felt as if he’d seen this in his dreams.

“You don’t need a yes or no from me,” she insisted, voice soft. “You don’t even have to ask. You’re going home.”

He stopped her and took her chin between his fingers.

“Are you upset?”

“Of course, I am. But what kind of lover would I be if I don’t want you to go home?”

There was so much to say. The words swam in her violet eyes and bubbled at his lips. But they wouldn’t lift, wouldn’t ride. Jon simply stood, stunned by the tears forming on her lashes. As her slender hand took his, the horizon took her attention. They started at the angry clouds forming far in the distance.

“I can wait,” Jon said. 

“You’ll be waiting four or five days for the storm to pass. We don’t have a choice.”

She had pulled herself away. With the sudden fury in her strides, hair whipping down her back, he knew she was starting back for the castle.

“We _are_ the choice!” he said, catching up to her. “Whatever we do, it’s about us, together. So, if I go now, we have to agree on it. And I’m not sure, Daenerys. I don’t think this should be the way.”

“Jon.” She huffed. “How long have we been together?”

“Nearly three moons,” he answered, helpless to the way his lips curled at the thought.

“That’s right,” she smiled. “You are mine, as I am yours. And you are finally safe to return home. A thousand leagues won’t lessen my love for you.”

“Nor mine for you,” he vowed.

“Then we know what we must do.” They had reached the battlements. She turned to him one last time. “We must say farewell.” 

He could never refuse her. And so, the castle was abuzz for the two hours Jon gathered his belongings and was helped for his trip aboard _Dark Sister._ Even the Queen’s advisors took the trip with them to the docks—and in their effort, he knew he had made true friends. The unexpected farewell continued, until his last words were shared with Missandei at the dock, as half a dozen paces away, Daenerys spoke with Lords Tyrion and Varys, and the ship’s captain.

Jon listened for her voice above the wind, as he pulled on his gloves.

“I have heard of a few _Westerosi_ sayings,” she began. “One seems most appropriate now.”

He chuckled wryly. “What’s that?”

“ _Dark wings, dark words._ ” Brows raised, he met her pinched gaze. “If it please you… Don’t make Daenerys regret meeting you, nor losing you to your duty. Return to her. That’s all she asks.”

Even as a storm drew closer, whipping up gales and the threat of freezing rain, Daenerys was a vision. Even as Jon had hesitated to leave on such short notice, and even now when he was set to board the ship in moments, Daenerys was one of the most powerful women—people—alive. She seemed to command all her eyes touched, with a hiss of Valyrian, the draft of fire in her eyes, her strange and delicate beauty. Jon knew how deep and pure her love ran for him, yet she was still a commander. So, he felt he had to ask. 

“Why won’t she tell me that, herself?”

Missandei gave him a stern look. “She shouldn’t have to.”

“Right,” he said, nodding deeply. Though sobering, responsibility felt right. “Then, I know you'll support her in her endeavors, and keep her safe. I’ll send a raven, soon.”

At that, her smile turned friendly. “I wish you good fortune…”

“Aye,” he nodded. “Thank you, Missandei. I wish the same to you and Grey Worm.”

They parted and returned to the others. Jon’s last kiss with Daenerys was like the first, but for the eyes of their company. They hugged one last time, and then he boarded the ship, remembering his promise to tell the lords of the North of his time on Dragonstone and of the grace with which Daenerys Targaryen ruled. The storm was set to be rough, but Jon would see through it. He kept his eyes forward.  

Leagues away, Daenerys watched his ship disappear under the cover of the storm.

Moons were set to turn, before he knew.

 

  

 

 

 

* ~ *~ *

_Winterfell_

289 AC

Winter

* ~ *~ *

 

When Daenerys was a child, she and Viserys were taught the histories of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms, before and after Aegon’s Conquest. Her first years in exile were a blur, credited to an orphaned childhood. Thus, between the house with the red door and Illyrio Mopatis’s palace in Pentos, Daenerys could not recall when she’d learned of Winterfell nor of House Stark. It was simply that, years later, her thorough knowledge had helped when she found Jon Snow, washed up half-dead on a rock off the coast of the Vale.

 _I saved his life,_ she thought, as she neared the east gate at Jon’s side. _Will they thank me now?_

She sensed the answers to her questions rise in the air, as the crenellated bulwarks of the east gate opened with a large and powerful groan. Just as it had on the volcanic entrance to Dragonstone, fate swooped deeply in her gut and she knew she would not turn back. A pair of guards, outfitted in common-born armor, were revealed on the other side—their heads bowed deeply before she could see their eyes.

Their greeting was a murmur of, “Your grace,” and she knew it was not for her. Eyeing the men’s lowered heads, Daenerys already felt her patience slipping.

“My sister?” Jon asked.

“In the courtyard, your grace,” answered the shorter one. “With Lady Arya and Lord Bran.”

When Jon nodded to them, Daenerys gestured for him to lead. As they stepped across the wooden bridge above the moat, she sensed his desire to catch her elbow and help her along. When they entered through the final gates of the inner wall and the courtyard opened to them, even in her concealed amazement, Daenerys knew he wanted to take her hand, to show her and share this with her.

As it were, however, Daenerys might as well have entered Winterfell on her own. She might have fared just fine because she was taken by the castle. It was fearsome, strange and ancient enough to rival the countless ruins scattered across _Essos_ : a massive castle complex outfitted by a dozen towers, numerous bridges connecting them, and a godswood that took a quarter of the space. The courtyard was clearly the most trafficked section, as the muddy ground revealed countless feet of snow that were constantly shoveled away. The triangular roofs of towers were capped with snow—the battlements capped with snow—the people capped with snow, though they huddled under cloaks lined with deer skin, fox fur, wolf fur.

Daenerys had only now noticed the hush.

Their eyes were on her hair, on her winter gown, on the silver chain of a three-headed dragon she’d strapped from shoulder to hip. A dozen paces before them stood a line of Starks, their vassal lords and important members of the household. For the first time since leaving Dragonstone with Jon, Daenerys felt the sharp edge of a _mistake_ circling her skin. Only if the edge pierced, she would know if one was made, for certain.

For now, she stepped forward with Jon.

“Sansa,” he greeted. “Arya. Bran.”

They said nothing, only kept their gazes on Daenerys.

“This is Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.” He gestured to her. “She needs no introduction from me.”

Sansa Stark was a blue-eyed, willowy beauty, a head taller than Daenerys, from which scarlet hair grew and fell down her refined posture, shining even in the snow-choked daylight. _They call it Tully features,_ she thought, remembering Jon’s stories of Lady Catelyn. On the other hand, Arya Stark was a wild beauty: grey-eyed and dark-haired, she held an edge that Daenerys warily approved of, especially once she found the thin sword strapped about the girl’s waist. Bran Stark surprised her the most: the grey-eyed, dark-haired young man sat in a wheeled chair. It made him look humbled, but Daenerys had seen the same, all-knowing sheen in the eyes before—and made a mental note of its presence within him.

The trait they all shared, however, was sharpness in their gazes. Recalling her love for the same trait in Jon, she allowed a smile.

“Lady Sansa,” she said, “it is good to finally meet you. Much time has passed since I found Jon and brought him to Dragonstone for his safety. I know so much about you, through him alone, that I almost feel I know you.”

Before she could continue, Lady Sansa replied. “I feel the same. Strange, isn’t it?”

Her tone was warm but she was unsmiling. Hesitantly, Daenerys nodded, “Yes, but I suppose we’ll have the time to discuss among ourselves.”

She turned to Lady Arya, who greeted her with slightly narrowed eyes. “Dragon Queen.”

Though shocked, Daenerys couldn’t help but smile. “Lady Arya. You are just as Jon described.”

“You, as well. You’re almost _too_ beautiful.”

This time, she laughed. “I still have yet to see if it’s a gift or a curse.”

“It’s a gift.” Brows raised, she turned to Lord Bran. “Forgive my manners. It’s just that I see all that has happened and all—”

Her attention was drawn by the groan of the gates opening again. Jon came to her side and sent a look to Bran that said, _Shut it_. But what did he mean? All heads turned to the gates as her advisors entered the courtyard, wide eyed and wary. Even Ser Jorah of House Mormont had not been welcome in Winterfell for decades. Daenerys took a deep breath, as she once again remembered the precariousness of this meeting.

From the corner of her eye, she watched Jon embrace his siblings, one at a time, Arya with the greatest affection. However, contrary to their initial vision—late nights spent in his chambers, dreaming of his return home—she could not watch their reunion. Though admiration swelled in her heart and bubbled at her lips, instead, Daenerys turned to her advisors.

“I believe some of us have strained history,” she began, watching the heavy exchange between Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion. “I encourage us all to accept the other’s presence during our stay. You can be sure of our cooperation, on my word.” She looked pointedly to Lady Sansa, who nodded with tight lips. “This is Ser Jorah Mormont, Commander of my Queensguard. Lord Tyrion, my Lord Hand. And Missandei of _Naath_ , my scribe and most trusted advisor.”

“House Stark welcomes you,” Lady Sansa greeted. “And what of your armies? Shouldn’t their generals be present?”

Daenerys didn’t know who to look to first—Jon or Ser Jorah? Steeling her ire, she met the lady’s icy gaze.

“I was wary of what you might think if I brought my generals along. After all, I am not here to conquer the North. I have come to _save_ the North, on King Jon’s behalf and as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. If you wish, I will fetch them. But of course, you will have to wait.”

Sansa held her eyes, then looked to her siblings, before lastly looking to Jon. In fact, all eyes had converged on Jon—the peacekeeper, it seemed—but he only huffed, before nodding to Daenerys.

“If Daenerys wanted to burn us all she would have done it already. But it seems I’ll have to say this a few times.” He sighed deeply. “The household will meet tonight in the Great Hall to welcome our guests. Yes?”

Arya and Bran nodded, though stiffly. Sansa narrowed her eyes but said nothing, before looking to Daenerys again. Daenerys was thankful she didn’t have to fight for the last word.

“My ladies, my lord… I see that you are unsure of what title to give me. I prefer your grace,” she said with finality. “I may not be your queen _yet_ …but I am nothing _less_ than a queen. Can we agree on this?”

Arya and Bran exchanged surprised glances, before nodding to her as they had with Jon. When she looked to Sansa, she was surprised to see her lips curled into a small smile. Yet her eyes were still cool. She nodded to her, then moved to usher her siblings back indoors.

Daenerys was tired already. Jon’s eyes brimmed with sympathy as he touched her arm.  

“It will become less tense.”

“Will it?”

“ _Aye_ ,” he stressed, as if his breath could make it so. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Daenerys.”

She only sighed, watching his siblings disappear among the crowd of bodies, Northern accents rising thick in the air. “It was always going to be like this.”

When his face fell, she remembered his earlier words: _This hurts me too._ A pulse of love hit her again and she touched his arm. After a start, he took her hand with searching eyes, yearning for closeness. Though Daenerys felt drawn to him, she was more unsure than ever, so she pulled away. After an aching beat, Jon told her about some duties he would tend to—and then he set off to do just that. Sensing a pair of eyes, she glanced to the other end of the courtyard, to the armory. A slender man with sharp features, a small pointed beard and conspiring eyes leaned against the castle wall.

When she blinked, however, he was gone.

She turned to Lord Tyrion. Meeting her eyes, he nodded to the shadow the man had left behind.

“That is Lord Petyr Baelish,” he supplied. “Former master of coin on Robert Baratheon and Joffrey Baratheon’s small councils. Now the Lord Protector of the Vale. I suppose he’s here with the lords of the Vale on behalf of Sansa Stark.”

Eyes narrowed, she said, “He gets around.”

“You don’t know the half of it, my Queen. We’ll keep an eye on him.” 

“I suspect I will, soon,” she hummed. “And we shall.”

 

________________

 

 

Though Jon was at Daenerys’s side, he had taken the lead on their winding way out of the armory.

He was a warm and imposing vision in large, dark furs, striding only as a king could. Feeling unexpectedly drawn to him, she was thankful that Ser Davos, Lord Tyrion, and Ser Jorah brought up the rear so they wouldn’t notice her gaze straying to him. They’d gone to the armory to discuss the dragonglass weapons the blacksmiths were making. From the head blacksmith’s knowledge, they’d returned from Dragonstone with enough to outfit their combined armies. The success had clearly caused his stride—but the scent of sweat, fur and _Jon_ was him alone.

The group walked across the path from the armory to the Great Keep for an early afternoon meeting with Lady Sansa. However, the song of steel rose, drawing their attention to the courtyard. Armed with her thin sword Needle, Arya goaded Jon. He was their King so he did not return the tease. He simply shook his head, as if weary, before a grin brightened his face. He withdrew Longlcaw as he lunged at her and she dipped swiftly, before coming at him around the back. Ready with his sword raised, however, their swords met—and in only a moment, brother and sister reached a deadly stalemate. They laughed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Jon looked back to catch Daenerys’s gaze.

The smile wobbled onto her face, before she cleared her throat and tried again. Jon wasn’t fooled. Neither was Arya. She did not care, however, so she turned to Ser Jorah with orders to check with Grey Worm and Qotho on camp rations.

“The cold makes them restless,” he informed her. “They’re already wondering how long we’ll be here.”

“They act as if they haven’t been briefed every step of the way.” She scoffed, then sighed. “I’ll find you after I speak with Lady Sansa. I’ll remind them of the great choice they made to fight the dead.”

“Yes, your grace.” He paused. “Here’s hoping they fight _soon._ ”

She nodded to him dismissively. “For now, tell them I am coming. Don’t forget their numbers.”

He nodded, but his brows rose as a deep breath filled his chest.

“What is it, Ser Jorah?”

“Nothing, your grace.” Then with a nod, he left.

“Well,” said Lord Tyrion, squinting in the snow. “Despite the cold, I like this visit to Winterfell much better than my first. Even though the glass gardens are useless when it’s this cold, they’re still nice to look at. And the First keep, though uninhabited now, is still nonetheless _massive._ Brandon the Builder walked these halls. And that—” He pointed to the eerie silhouette of the Broken Tower— “is where Bran Stark fell. Casterly Rock can’t boast nearly as much _rich_ history.”

Daenerys couldn’t help but chuckle.

“If you could stay at Winterfell for long,” he asked with an air of innocence, “would you?”

She passed Lord Tyrion a long glance. “Ask me again in a fortnight.” She left him behind and entered the Great Keep. Her heels echoed on the stone floor as she trailed a hand along the south wall, warming her fingers on the hot spring water piping through. After rounding three corners, she came upon a pair of guards before a great door.

They noticed the Dragon Queen’s approach, then after knocking, opened the door. Noticing Lady Sansa’s steady attention on the parchment before her, Daenerys quietly entered, then waited for the door to close before approaching her. Sansa did not look from her work.

“Queen Daenerys,” she greeted, voice level. “I wasn’t expecting your visit. I would have left the writing for later.”

Putting the parchment aside, Lady Sansa smiled at her. Daenerys took the seat before her desk then clasped her hands in her lap. Though the skin was cold, she had already decided not to wear gloves indoors. Not in the company of the Northmen, at any matter.

“I don’t plan to visit for long,” she replied. “These days, we’ve more to do than we have time, so I won’t waste it.”

Sansa leaned back in her high chair, fingers lacing to catch her chin, as she watched Daenerys produce a long scroll from within her lined sleeve. Daenerys felt the moment still, as she paused, holding it in her palms.

“I’m aware that you and Jon drafted a letter of agreement before he left for Dragonstone. After he took me through it, I agreed with your terms. My armies are twenty-thousand strong, and they are _strong._ They have enough food for a fortnight, and tents to stave off the cold and the dark. Boredom may become a problem with lack of movement, but I trust we’ll soon march north?”

It was a probing question and Sansa knew it.

“Queen Daenerys,” she began. “Though I’ve spent years trapped under the thumbs of scheming men, I have been to war only once. With only a handful of Northern lords at our back, Jon and I didn’t have enough bannermen to fight Ramsay Bolton’s army. Yet he marched on and he nearly died in the attempt to save our brother Rickon, and again during the battle.”

Daenerys recalled the story. Her heart pulsed at the thought of their younger brother. Yet hearing, once again, of how Jon nearly died, caused a lump to form in her throat.

Lady Sansa continued. “Just in time, I struck a deal with Lord Baelish and acquired enough men to turn the tide. Watching Ramsay Bolton’s army flatten below the cavalry of the Valemen was deeply satisfying. But I don’t think I could do it again—to play with the odds of war. If I may ask, what makes you so eager to fight?”

Daenerys started. Pinched between her fingers, the parchment crinkled. Snows filtered into the partly opened window behind Lady Sansa, catching in her pretty scarlet hair. Yet her expression was placid, as if she did not feel the cold, blue eyes trained on Daenerys.

Cautious, she asked, “Do you truly wish to know?”

Sansa must have sensed her hesitance, because she softened her face, hands flexing opened, and nodded once.

“There are not enough people who fight for those who cannot defend themselves. So, I _choose_ to do so _,_ every day.”

Sansa smiled. “Jon was always the same way.” She laughed suddenly, round and bright. “If I’d paid attention when we were younger, I would have noticed.”

“Oh?” Daenerys replied, allowing herself a chuckle. “Then I believe I was smart to notice right away.”

Sansa paused, brow pinching, and watched her for a breath. Used to gazes that wished to pick her apart, Daenerys held her gaze then watched it tick down to the parchment in her hands.

Sansa reached forward as if to take it, but sensing the balance of power, Daenerys didn’t hand it to her yet.

“No one answered my question last night, during the welcome feast,” she said. “I trust yours and Jon’s advisors have had enough time to find the answer. When do we march north?”

“What if I told you I didn’t want to march north just yet?”

Her patience was slipping. “I would ask why you’d sent Jon to ask me, so soon. I was readying to fight a different war, when he arrived.”

“Yes, I know. Jon told me.” Sansa paused. “I didn’t send him to Dragonstone. At first, it was his idea, to meet with you king to queen. However, we did agree that enough time had passed since he’d left.”  

Daenerys frowned. Discomfort returned, creeping up her throat. It was the stinging ache of betrayal, of being seen for less than she was. Had Jon not cared at all? Had his visit been purely utilitarian? He said he’d missed her, but had he?

“But there is a weasel in our halls,” Sansa continued. “Someone in my charge whom I cannot trust, but I don’t know just _who_ yet. As urgent as it is with the Others, we _cannot_ march forward until he is found and the threat is snuffed out. Your grace…is an observant woman. Look around and watch.”

Daenerys said nothing.

“Give it a fortnight,” Sansa pressed. “Then, we’ll march our armies north. Just a fortnight.”

Though wary, Daenerys would not refuse. Instead she asked, “Does Jon know? About this weasel?”

Her brow pinched deeply, and Daenerys suddenly saw the fracture that had sprung between the two when they were children. “I don’t know.” Just as she expected, it hadn’t yet healed.

Daenerys appreciated Sansa’s honesty. But she was still protective of Jon, so she didn’t continue, wishing not to discuss things about him that Sansa didn’t seem to understand. With the silence, however, her mixed feelings stirred within her uncomfortably. Certain she had all she’d wanted from their meeting, she slid the parchment onto the desk. Sansa eyed it for so long that she almost smiled.

“Are these our agreement papers?”

“No. It’s a letter.” Daenerys held her eyes, willing the other woman to see her sincerity. “Lady Sansa, you and I will never have enough time to speak. So please read it.”

She moved to her feet and inclined her head in farewell, before turning for the door. Restlessness took her heart on the way out into the storm. She didn’t want to see Ser Jorah and her men yet. Nor did she wish to consult with Lord Tyrion on their talk. She was searching for something else to do, when halfway down the bridge leading to the armory, she caught a glimpse—the rare glimpse of Jon alone, overlooking the north battlements into the Lonely Hills. With each step through the snow, she recalled the way he had glowed during those early, Autumn days.

Tangled in bed, drinking wine at her nearby table, gazing into the choppy sea, they’d spent numerous mornings together—exchanging anecdotes, horrific memories and lessons learned. _Viserys, Ser Willem Darry, Illyrio Mopatis._ Heart skipping with phantom pain, she’d told him everything. _My sun-and-stars, Rhaego, Irri_. In turn, he’d slid his hand into her palm and held it to his chest. _Father, Lady Catelyn._ Jon’s eyes were particularly solemn, when he recounted his father’s reticence regarding the true identity of his mother. _Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Sansa._ With his stories, Daenerys felt most fond of Arya, but she best understood Bran’s desire to climb and move. She even learned of the direwolves. _Grey Wind, Nymeria, Summer, Shaggydog, Lady._

Most were gone, now. Only three trueborn Stark and one direwolf lived, while Jon, the most unlikely of the bunch, had been crowned King in the North.

It was most ironic—and the truest thing that any gods had allowed since the birth of her dragons. Across the expanse of ancient stone and wooden fixtures, gargoyles and snow-capped roofs, Jon made a mirrored image of her fortitude, her loneliness, her earnestness. How the conclusion could hit her again, while they were so far apart, confounded her. Yet she stood in the falling snow, eyes welling with the greatest love.

Somewhere in her chest, it still hurt to look at him, because she had not forgotten the breaking of vows, the betrayal of trust. But he was hers to love, and that would always mean _everything._

Willing Jon not to move from his post, she started down the steps.

 

 

________________

 

 

It was the most exquisite exercise, the heart-pounding exertion of sex. Anchoring one arm around Jon's flexing back, Daenerys used the other hand to hold onto the headboard for support. He could crack her open and she wouldn’t mind, would gladly burst all boundaries with him and expand into the dust that formed the world. When she took him deep, kissing the sweetness from his lips, she was transported to the moment he entered her four days ago, for the first time in a long time. He shuddered above her and she pulsed open at the press of his hips, thoroughly filled with his cock, and closed her legs around his waist. Desiring further closeness, Jon held her eyes as he pressed flush to her, and she followed with her own shudder as she buried a hand in his curls, blinking the haze away so she could _see_ him. 

Breath washing over her face, Jon’s hand shook as he trailed his thumb along her brow and down her cheekbone. When her fingers brushed along the wound just below his back ribs, she felt herself tremble, too.

Licking her lips, she nodded to him, knowing she didn't need to voice what she needed.

He kissed her temple then resumed at a thorough pace, hands at her hips to thrust in her cunt solid and deep. She loved the feeling of his lust, the unwinding of his muscles as they worked together, hips sealed, seeking pleasure. Within moments she moaned as she came, fluttering around his cock, and he followed with a low groan that she soothed with a kiss. Still deep inside her, he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. It was a _thorough_ hug.

She chuckled in amazement. He simply pressed his lips to her crown, puffing amused breaths against her scalp, to which she closed her eyes gratefully, smoothing her hand down his arm to hang on and keep him close. Bones aching, they finally pulled away enough to breathe, to cool down. But Daenerys was still responsive: nipples sensitive, cunt aching tightly to the touch, lips wondrously sore.

Jon’s surprised chuckle rose as he leaned up on his elbows. “Daenerys,” he breathed. “I _wrecked_ you.”

His gaze thrilled her. Stroking a thumb along his beard, she said, “Yes. You did.”

His brow pinched with worry, before he chuckled, the lines around his eyes forming strong. She kissed him one last time, long and deep, before she pulled away to look for her smallclothes. He exhaled, before moving to search for his own. She dressed herself in record time and was pulling on her boots when Jon spoke. She was surprised that he'd already fully dressed, too. 

“I love you,” he said.

Warmed by the sentiment and his gesture of intimacy, she smiled at him. This was how their initial reunion was supposed to feel. Simple, blissful union.

“I love you," she returned, the words sweet on her lips. If she could just forget the breaking of vows and focus on the fact that he was here now... But the thought was feeble. As if he read her mind, he rounded the feather bed and circled her in his arms. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his shoulder. 

“Despite this love, I know all isn't well between us," he said into her hair. "Thank you for allowing me a little closer to you. I see that we can't be what we were before... But I think we’re close.”

“To what?” she frowned, meeting his eyes.

He paused knowingly, lightly. “To something different.”

Of course, Daenerys had felt a shift--it was why and how she had brought him to her bed. She knew she loved him, so deeply, but it felt as if they had just broken ground on their issues--which meant, despite Jon's bright eyes, they were clearly not on the same page. Chagrined, she gave him an absent squeeze then turned for the door. When she reached, however, he called.

“Daenerys…”

“Jon?”

“Whatever you’re doing with my sisters…I’ll give you a week before I ask questions.”

He was serious, though his eyes were warm. Chuckling, Daenerys humored him. “Very well, your grace," she teased. "You’ll know soon enough, anyway.”

Smiling with self-deprecation, Jon nodded to her. She finally exited and left him in her chambers. The castle was quiet for early afternoon, so she found herself frowning as she walked the heated halls of the Great Keep. After rounding two corners, she found the stairs to the first level. Before she could reach, a shadow grew from the wall and a man stepped forth silently.

Breath caught in her throat, Daenerys snapped at him.

“Lord Baelish,” she hissed. “Has anyone ever told you that you resemble the Undying of _Qaarth_?”

“I’ve never met anyone who lived to tell the tale,” he chuckled, dipping his head to her. “My sincerest apologies, your grace.”

Well, he _did_ look like them _._ Slender build, sharp wit, malevolent energy. He had everything save for the lips, tainted blue with Shade of the Evening. After talking with him twice the past few days, Daenerys was familiar enough with Petyr Baelish to know he was a _bad_ man. She would not grant him room to manipulate her, so she cut him off. “You are not housed in the Great Keep. What are you doing here, if not to see Lady Sansa? Surely, you weren’t on your way to my chambers to see _me?_ ”

He raised a hand in protest. “Not to your chambers, no.”

“Then how else had you planned to find me?”

He paused, eyes narrowed on hers, and went silent. She didn’t know the man, but she knew he’d owned several brothels in King’s Landing, so she heard the accusing words on his lips: _You were fucking the King in the North._ Wary of the tales he could spread among their vassal lords, Daenerys eyed him for a long moment. Then she gestured to the stairs. “Walk with me, my lord.”

He stepped into stride with her and followed her to the first floor. When they passed Sansa’s guarded study, she saw his brows tick with surprise, quickly turning to calculating suspicion. Having seen Lord Baelish slink around Winterfell’s many shadows, she decided to busy him.

“I won’t pretend to know you,” she started, as they entered the courtyard. Stablemen tended to their horses while children trained at swordplay and archery, and barrows of Autumn harvest from the Vale headed for the kitchens. “So, I won’t pretend to like you, Lord Baelish.”

Brow raised, he turned to her.  

“But it doesn’t mean we can’t work together,” she continued, nodding to the activity before them. “Have you seen one of the Others, or the dead men that King Jon speaks of?”

“I have not.”

“So, you don’t believe him.”

“I didn’t say that, your grace. I simply have a hard time believing in anything I haven’t seen.” He smiled at her, as they neared the armory. “Yet you, Daenerys Targaryen, are before me. Anything must be possible.”

“ _I_ believe him, Lord Baelish. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” She stopped him. “I appreciate you coming forth to discuss the matter of pledging yourself to me. However, I would like to continue our talks in the audience of your vassal lords.”

“You would prefer their agreement? That’s not the way kings and queens typically do this.”

“That’s the way _I_ do this, Lord Baelish.”

She sighed when Sansa Stark emerged from a gate that led to the godswood. Recalling Sansa’s stories, that she and Lord Baelish had not been on speaking terms in over a moon’s turn, she watched him start. Continuing her act, she said wearily, “Now I must leave you.”

She met with Sansa. As they stepped through the courtyard, they were silent, until they entered the Great Keep.

Hushed, Daenerys said, “He’s the one, then.”

“Yes.”

Within moments they arrived at Sansa’s study. Arya was already within, waiting for them. Sansa sighed when she saw her sister, before rounding to seat herself in her high chair. Daenerys took the same seat as before, while Arya leaned on the edge of the desk, arms crossed.

“What have you seen?” Sansa asked.

Brows raised, Arya turned to Daenerys.

“Littlefinger?” she guessed.

After a wary nod, Daenerys answered. She’d found him speaking with too many guards he’d had no business speaking too. Some were Northmen, some were hedge knights who’d come from distant parts of the Vale. Some were even members of the household: cooks and servants and stablemen. He had their ears, but from what Daenerys had seen, he did not yet have their hearts.

“That’s only the beginning,” Sansa said when she’d finished. She exchanged a tense glance with Arya, who had turned dour. “He grew up with our mother. He was supposed to have been like an uncle to us, but when we went to King’s Landing, he aided in our father’s betrayal. Before then, he turned our mother and sister against each other. When Arya returned to Winterfell, he waited two months before he tried to do the same to us.”

“And that’s not including what he _did_ to Sansa,” Arya cut in. “How he married her to that wicked Ramsay Bolton—”

“Arya, please,” said Sansa, raising a hand to silence her. Though irritated, Arya shut her mouth and turned to Daenerys again, as if to weigh her reaction. Knowing of the sparse details Jon had shared with her, her heart pulsed with empathy, but she said nothing. After a beat, Sansa continued. “Littlefinger’s coin has filled many pockets in the realm. And he’s Lord Protector of the Vale. Even though the lords dislike him, it isn’t enough to put him to trial.”

“We don’t _have_ enough,” Arya said. “But you’ve seen things around the castle that we haven’t.”

“ _Sansa.”_ Daenerys started, then leaned forward, thrilling with the desire to take her hand. “You are _so clever._ Is this why you wanted me here? To shake him and cause him to slip? You bent the knee to execute _one_ man?”

“It isn’t…”

“Stop blushing,” Arya snapped at Sansa. “Yes, your grace, it was her grand plan. She didn’t want to share it with Jon, but I knew. I still feel strange for not telling him…”

“And what I said before remains true,” said Sansa. “Littlefinger thrives off chaos. What better feast, than the Great War? We _cannot_ march into battle against the Others, while he remains in power. _We can’t._ ”

“I see,” Daenerys nodded, “but I don’t understand. Why haven’t you told Jon?”

“Because he would _kill_ him,” said Arya hotly, tears suddenly springing in her eyes. “And we don’t have the proof that would make it alright.”

“That shouldn’t matter,” she insisted. “He’s your king.”

Sansa and Arya shook their heads. _The North Remembers_ , their eyes said. Saddened, Daenerys lowered hers. Winterfell was a snake’s spit that Jon had tried to wrestle into control since before the Battle for Winterfell. For the first time, Daenerys glimpsed the restraints that might have kept him from returning to her, for so long.

A long moment passed. Light snows floated into the partially opened window, but they were not beautiful to Daenerys’s eyes. The women before her, eyes trained on her, made a better vision. But, momentarily helpless, she did not know how to continue. After withdrawing a parchment from a drawer, Sansa finally spoke.

“I read your letter.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes, tried not to swallow thickly for the fact that she didn’t know what she saw. Sansa’s blue eyes weren’t pinched. Not yet.

“You love him,” she continued, “don’t you?”

She could say nothing.

“You never said the words, but it’s all here. It mustn’t be easy.”

“We know.” Arya smiled warmly. “Welcome to the family, Queen Daenerys.”

Daenerys unstuck the lump in her throat. “Thank you, Arya…” She was breathless. “It isn’t easy now. Certainly not. Even so…it’s the greatest thing I’ve ever done.”

“ _Really_?” In a moment, Arya had turned incredulous. “I mean, he’s great…but he can be a pain.”

“And what about you, Arya?”

“Oh, don’t start!”

The sisters had started fighting, so suddenly Daenerys spluttered a laugh. Arya returned to her with bright, Stark grey eyes.

“But really? Even beyond your dragons?”

“They’re my children,” Daenerys corrected. “But yes,” she vowed, eyes closing at the weight of this, “I love him. Though Jon can be a pain, he is my greatest choice. Even when he left…I loved him no less. And now…”

She trailed off, frowning, for she didn’t know what she meant. Yet Sansa and Arya were smiling, tenderly as if afraid this love could scurry off, or drift away in a moment. They were as haunted as she was by the loss of him; as grateful for his life as she was.

“That’s the best thing about Jon…” said Sansa. “He always comes back.”

Arya’s grin was bright. “He does.”

Daenerys nodded in agreement, the words echoing in her mind. Memories rose like the waves of the Blackwater, and she recalled finding him…and she gasped. Sansa and Arya watched her, waiting.

“Littlefinger,” she said. “I think he plotted against Jon, too.”

 

 

  

 

 

//

_The Wolfswood_

288 AC

Autumn

\\\

 

Jon arrived as alone as he’d left, but with far more freedom than he’d had in a long time. Returning home was a choice he reveled in. With a rush of breath, he halted his mount upon a hill. Winterfell stood among the low storm clouds, strong and ancient and _home_. But he was a lone rider. With the raven he’d sent in lieu of his arrival, he’d known to be cautious. _Meet me in the Wolfswood,_ he’d said. Hopefully, Sansa would do just that. Hopefully, he could speak to her before entering Winterfell.

Jon was not paranoid; he had learned a lesson. 

Enemies could hide in the most sacred spaces.

He entered the forest, riding along the southeastern edge for long moments, until his surroundings grew familiar. Knowing he’d entered the parts of the Wolfswood, where he’d spent his childhood learning to hunt, he halted. Then he listened. 

_Crunch._

Within moments, the underbrush gave way to hooves and lumbering, armored men. Jon took a bracing breath as the party broke through. Three household guards poured in, hands on the hilts of their swords, and three mounts appeared. There was Ser Davos, whose salt-and-pepper beard hadn’t faded—Lady Brienne of Tarth, who still seemed to be his sister’s sworn lady-knight—and taking the lead was beautiful Sansa.

They watched each other for countless breaths, before he dismounted his horse. When he reached her, she’d dismounted, and turned just in time for his embrace. Surprised, she laughed into his hair. But Jon could only hug her harder. Soon they pulled apart.

As he nodded to Ser Davos and Lady Brienne, she watched him, as if she couldn’t believe it.

“I knew it,” she said, Tully blue eyes narrowed.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“They thought you were dead. That’s all Lord Manderly and Lord Harrion could say. They didn’t know how, but you’d disappeared after the battle and didn’t show for months. _He must be dead._ But I never believed it.”

One thing was certain. Sansa was not the girl who had watched from the other side of the battlefield as the mounted knights of the Vale flattened Ramsay Bolton’s forces. Not the girl, whose smirk Jon could see a league away. Not the girl, who had found Ramsay’s blood on his hands, who he was sure hadn’t forgiven him for killing him.

Sansa was _strong._ Despite dissent falling on her like the snows of a Winter storm, she had chosen to believe that, wherever he was, Jon had lived. For the first time since leaving Dragonstone, Jon smiled, and felt a pulse of gratitude in his chest.

Her eyes flitted over his body with growing alarm, as if checking for injuries. His hair had grown long enough to fall into his eyes, so he always kept it tied. During three too many training sessions, he’d acquired another facial scratch from an _arakh_ that had come too close. And his clothes—well, most of the armor Daenerys had was either Unsullied, _Dothraki,_ or an ambiguous Westerosi fashion that, to his dismay, outfitted Targaryen features. Jon didn’t look the same. He didn’t feel the same.

Yet, it didn’t matter.

“Littlefinger was the worst of all,” she continued with a sneer. “He tried to turn me into his pawn… _again._ But I know what he wants, so I can keep him at bay.” She trailed off, eyes deeply saddened. “It was so hard without you, Jon.”

A lump formed in his throat. He could say nothing. He simply patted her arm, willing for her to see how sorry he was for disappearing when she needed him. He looked to Ser Davos and Lady Brienne, thanked them with all he could muster. Small smiles on their faces, they nodded to him.

“It’s good to see you, Jon,” said Ser Davos.

Warmed at his familiarity, Jon smiled. “Thank you both, for all you’ve done. You especially, Lady Brienne.”

“It is my honor to protect Lady Sansa,” she said, with the greatest air of chivalry that Jon suddenly recalled, respectfully, as unmistakably hers. When he returned to Sansa, she had turned skeptical.

“It’s true, then? Daenerys Targaryen has landed on Dragonstone…and she took you in?”

“The story’s a bit longer than that. But yes,” he nodded. “She found me and took me in, allowed me to heal and gain my strength.”

She eyed his armor, but said nothing about it. “Jon, what _happened_?”

He spent the next hour in the forest, recounting what had happened to him. Sansa listened intently, though she grew uneasy by the minute. She shook her head and murmured, _No._ But Jon nodded to her, said, _Yes, it happened,_ and pushed through.

“But _how_?” she snapped. “How had they survived the battle? How did they find you unarmed? Ramsay was already dead. You’d killed him—”

There was a harsh pause. Jon lowered his eyes remorsefully.

“Is that why you stayed away for so long?” she continued, quiet now. “You feared they would find you?”

“Aye,” Jon nodded, saddened in a way he hadn’t felt since that day. “They wanted to watch me drown, Sansa. They were too bold to not have been supported. So, I thought there might have been more men involved… And by the time Daenerys found me, I was too far from Winterfell.”

“You couldn’t even return to your _home_.” She was incensed. “You stayed on that _rock_ with a woman people call the Dragon Queen, for months! When you should have been here…” Her eyes cleared, focusing on something he could not see. “Though I don’t know what she’ll want from us, I am grateful to her. But she didn’t solve all our problems. Do you think the men who captured you…are still behind our walls?”

“They were Bolton men, so they wouldn’t have been welcome. But I don’t know…” He sighed deeply. “I just don’t know.”

Her eyes had focused again. “There’s only one way for us to know.”

She turned for her horse and began mounting. Jon watched, stunned.

“Arya and Bran are alive, and they’re here,” she added, casting him a smirk. “But I’m sure you knew that.”

Chuckling, he started back for his horse. “That was a rude letter, Sansa.”

“If you’d made friends with the Dragon Queen, I’m sure she didn’t mind too much.” She shook her head grudgingly. “You were always good at that. It’s always _work_ for me, you know.”

“Well,” he grunted, climbing onto his mount. “I can’t apologize for being good at _some_ things, can I?”

As they turned their mounts for Winterfell, Jon knew what he had to say—before he saw Arya and Sansa, before the lords of the North welcomed his return with bafflement, before he had to push his support for Daenerys Targaryen’s cause. Before everything changed, again.

“Sansa.”

“Yes?” 

“Ramsay was yours to kill. I’m sorry for taking that from you.”

She looked over her shoulder at him and raised her brow. A moment passed, as she watched her brother, before she nodded once. After a tense sigh, Jon joined her party and together, they headed for Winterfell. They arrived at the east gate when the sun had begun its descent, shimmering on the walls, beyond which Arya and Bran waited. Jon looked forward to the reunion, to moving forward with his family.

Though he wasn’t sure Sansa could forgive him, he was certain of one thing.

_I’m home._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what happened here, but I love it! If you agree, drop a kudos or a comment! I hope it answered questions from the first chapter, and I hope you can feel the answers for this one coming on the horizon. 
> 
> For example,  
> I hope Jon seems less like a fuckboy now.  
> I love Arya but I really hope Sansa sounded awesome.  
> And I hope we can remember that love heals. Dany sure did. :)
> 
> If you have any questions, send them my way! The last chapter will be up next week. If you believe I can do it, then I'm sure I can, too. :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Almost Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past: Jon learns the biggest secret of his life. When given the option to be true, he chooses wrong.  
> In the present: Daenerys and the Starks hatch their plan against Littlefinger. When things run awry, hers and Jon's issues come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot bunny ran away with my imagination so this is not the last chapter. You'll see once you get to the end of this one. Also, I deleted the "interlude" to keep the posts simple. Thanks for truckin' along with me, folks.

//

_Winterfell_

288 AC

Autumn

\\\

 

 _The Queen in the North._  

The title sounded good to Jon’s ears. But every time he mentioned it, Sansa threatened to throttle him. It wasn’t long before she offered to turn the Stark crown over to him. After nearly a year stitching the North back together, she’d grown tired. Perhaps sensing this, the lords who had stayed after the battle to help rebuild Winterfell, had taken their swords up in a declaration for Jon. _The King in the North._ Even Arya—even _Bran_ —had supported the switch-over. But Jon wouldn’t have it, wouldn’t swoop in and steal all the success Sansa had worked so hard to achieve. He set his siblings aside and talked with them at length. Just who did they think he was?

 _Jon,_ they’d answered. _Winter is coming, right? You’re the military man, the one who can see this through._

Throat swelling with emotion, Jon noticed he didn’t even have to ask for their faith. Soon after, he accepted the nomination from their vassal lords, favoring to go crown-less as Sansa had, for one would only interrupt his priority of survival. Sansa kept the North from consuming itself after the Battle for Winterfell. But they were still prepping for Winter’s arrival and had yet to do so for the threat of the Others.

Jon would be up to the neck with his share of work sooner or later.

Two weeks into his kingship, the day started fair enough. The great hall was loud with the voices and munching of lords, ladies and their household members. Furniture scraped the ancient stone floors as men moved about, joyful for such a late autumn morning. Where Jon was seated at the center of the great table, he took a sip of his hot spiced ale, and enjoyed the crisp air and rare sunlight that filtered into the hall. His other hand played with a roll of parchment that he’d tucked into his cloak pocket, drifting thoughts interrupted by a sharp nudge to his side.

“What’s that?” Arya asked.

“What’s what?”

She pointed to the hand buried in his cloak pocket. “What’s that in your hand?” 

Jon revealed a folded parchment in his palm. With a warning glare, he held it from her grasping hands. Arya seemed to catch herself, but Jon softened, for he saw the girl and the woman warring within. _A life as a sleuth killer is not what Father would have wanted,_ he thought _._ But he was unsurprised. What happened to their family had changed them all. Knowing what was ahead of them, Jon was certain the skill would guide his little sister well.

“May I see it?” she asked, with a strained air that made him chuckle.

“It’s the letter that Daenerys sent to Sansa, before I came back to Winterfell,” he prefaced, before placing it in her palm. Her grey eyes flitted across the page as she skimmed through the lines. Brow furrowed, she said, “You really asked Sansa for this? And she gave it to you?”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

He took the letter from her and replaced it inside of his cloak.

“ _I_ wouldn’t. I would be cautious of the same foolishness that got Robb killed.”

Jon started, free hand tapping the table with his apprehension. He’d expected to hear the argument, but not so soon. And not from Arya. 

“When I arrived,” she continued, “only a month after the battle, Sansa had her hands full with the lot of them. Only Lord Glover’s men behaved themselves. The rest got into skirmishes, all times of the day! Without Ser Davos and Lord Royce, even without Littlefinger…she might have been in trouble.”

“As far as anyone was concerned, she was Queen in the North,” Jon countered. “The lords would have never allowed anything to happen to her.”

She glanced at their sister, who was on her other side. Thankfully, Sansa was preoccupied by a conversation with Lord Harrion of House Karstark, who stood before the great table with his hands clasped behind him. Littlefinger was seated with Lord Yohn Royce and his knights, while Lady Brienne had taken presence on the opposite side, among Lady Lyanna Mormont and her guards. _Sansa’s triangle of support_ , Jon mused. Arya gave him a pointed look.

“That doesn’t mean she was safe. I had to help her deal with them.” She made a grand gesture of the hall, indicating their cheerful guests. “Our bannermen have only just begun to remember who they were to each other before the Bolton’s and the battle. It’s even more important for them to remember who the _Starks_ are, before they’re asked to look to a Targaryen for help.”

Jon deflated, just a pinch. He was still certain of his decision to at least tell them about Queen Daenerys’ arrival on Dragonstone. They needed to know about the help that awaited them. Even if they didn’t like it. Even if they didn’t want it. 

He glanced to the young Lord Harrion again, musing about his late grandfather Rickard Karstark. He had supported Robb during his campaign, before the alliance somehow went sideways. _What would he say now?_ Certain he’d at least get the lord’s ear, but uncertain of those around him who were still alive, he looked around. Lady Barbrey of House Dustin walked to the great table and stopped behind Lord Harrion, hands clasped before her as she patiently waited to speak with Sansa. She caught Jon’s eyes and dropped into a polite courtesy. Jon nodded in acknowledgement. But when she didn’t think he was looking, she seemed to be listening intently. Jon lowered his voice.  

“Daenerys has armies, tenfold stronger than ours. She has dragons that can help defeat the Others. And she’s determined. She will try to bring the North into her rule, sooner or later.”

“So, you would surrender to her sooner?” Arya was aghast. “After all we’ve done to remain sovereign? After all _you’ve_ done?”

“I am not surrendering because we aren’t at war with her. That’s what we’re trying to avoid. Now, you don’t have to like my plan, but you have to respect her. And you have to help me because I’m your brother.” He passed the letter to her, this time under the table. “Read it again. We are stronger together.”

She glanced at him, then brought it to her lap for another read.

She was quiet when she handed it back to him. “That might be true. It’s also true that you’ll do whatever you want. So, what I say doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Of course, it does, little sister.”  

Jon had missed Arya too much to accept her disgruntlement. He wrapped his arm around her and pressed a quick kiss to her hairline. Huffing, she relaxed into the embrace, before returning to her breakfast of fried bread and egg. Jon watched her with an absent frown. Moments passed.  

Lady Barbrey drew his eyes again. Before the battle, Jon, Sansa and Ser Davos discussed the noblewoman who‘d been born a Ryswell. Her husband had died decades ago during the skirmish at the Tower of Joy, yet even during the Bolton’s stint as Warden of the North, she ensured that House Dustin continued the faith they’d kept for a thousand years. Her allegiance could not be overappreciated. And so, she’d become an important ally for the remaining Stark children. Now sensing Jon’s attention, she lifted a gloved hand.

“If it please your grace, I would like to step forward—”

Arya hit him on the chest. Turning to glare, instead he followed the finger that led over his shoulder. Bran’s grey eyes were wide and focused on his face.

“Jon!”

“What is it?” he asked.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Is it urgent?”

“ _Yes_.”

Holding in a sigh, he apologized to the lady. Arya talked with her as he went to his brother and wheeled Bran’s chair into the war room behind the great hall. People would notice their sudden exit, but he was sure they’d return soon enough so they left silently. However, Bran’s expression gave him pause. _You want to go to the godswood_. Jon’s stomach dropped, but he nodded, before steering Bran into the first-floor hall of the Great Keep.

The walk was pleasant enough, detailed by things he had wished to share with Daenerys numerous times since returning. The crisp air and sunlight filtering through light snow. The courtyard’s calm, since most of the household was in the kitchens or the great hall. The steady click of Bran’s wheels as they revolved. Yet the walk was not pleasant enough to distract Jon from his apprehension.

The last time he’d met with Bran in the godswood, he told him about all that had happened since leaving Winterfell. All that Bran had seen with the eyes of the heart tree and a murder of crows. All he’d learned from The Three-Eyed-Raven—who had once been Bloodraven, a Targaryen bastard—far into the free, frozen lands Beyond the Wall. It was clear to Jon, that the realm’s breadth of history was larger than they’d thought. It was also clear that his little brother was in tune with the fabric of the world; all-knowing and all-seeing. Perhaps Bran even conversed with the gods.

Which meant he had something to say that Jon did not want to know.

Although his heels dragged in the earth, he pushed Bran into the sacred space, rounded the perimeter of the black pool, and stopped at the trunk of the heart tree. As if sensing him, the tree shook in a minor gust of wind, preceding a shower of blooded leaves. Jon took deep, full breaths to brace against the cold.

“The heart tree comforts you,” he observed.

“It does.”

“Do you comfort it?”

Bran’s lips quirked in a mild form of amusement. Not quite there. More like interest.

“I’d like to think that I do,” he replied. “But the heart tree doesn’t have thoughts…of its own, at least.”

“Right,” Jon said, “you see through the eyes the Children carved.”

“Yes. The heart tree holds memories.” He smiled. “I suppose that’s why it’s comforting.”

Moments passed as Jon ruminated. Bran was utterly calm, as if untouchable, grey eyes reflecting the darkness of the pool before him. Already, Jon felt him slipping away.

“You know you have to be here, right, Bran? Bloodraven is gone. Hodor, Jojen and Myra, Osha and Summer… they can’t protect you, now. We can, but only if we can talk to you, see how you’re doing. And you have to protect us.”

“I know.” Frowning, Bran pressed his gloved hands into the arms of his chair. “I’m…trying. In fact, that’s why I have to apologize to you, first.”

Bran turned to Jon, eyes tracing his face almost anxiously.

“Do you remember when I told you about Littlefinger’s plots against you?”

Not a week since returning home, Bran pulled Jon into the godswood and laid it out before him. In the crushed lines of Bolton men, Lord Petyr Baelish had plucked five able-bodied, breathing, vengeful men from their former ranks and arranged for them to capture Jon. They were tasked with cornering him alone before the day was out, to escort him out of the North, where Sansa Stark’s jurisdiction couldn’t reach him. So long as Jon was dead, they were exiled to any of the other six kingdoms, where they would live out their lives in undeserved peace.

Jon grew hot at the reminder, incensed once more by the lord’s audacity. More so by the fact that it had _worked._ But not perfectly. Jon had returned with more than his life, which was why he’d decided not to retaliate, yet. Bran was certain Littlefinger didn’t know that Jon knew. Jon wanted to keep it that way, to save his secrets for when they were most powerful. Though he’d risen to become the second-youngest Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he hadn’t had the most experience with the subtler form of political plots. But he was a swift learner. And Littlefinger had taught him well.

Bran’s eyes had found his hands, which were clenched in the shadow of his cloak. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

“I didn’t consider how it might hurt you,” Bran said remorsefully. “It wasn’t enough that you needed to know. This will hurt, too, so I’m sorry, Jon. Please don’t speak until I’m finished.”

“How can I not—?”

“Please.”

Jon swallowed. “Alright.”

When Bran took a deep breath, the world rushed into him, then came out in a litany that beat at Jon’s defenses. Helpless to the tide, he fell below the surface once more.  

“We grew up knowing you were Father’s bastard, but we didn’t know who your mother was. Father knew.” He said it again. “Father knew. You are his nephew, while Aunt Lyanna was your mother. We were told that after the Tourney of Harrenhal, she was captured by Rhaegar Targaryen. That wasn’t true. They’d fallen in love. They got married and set to have you. You know what happened to them, how they died. She made Father promise to raise you as his son, to keep you alive.”

Jon could barely hear him over the rush of blood in his ears. Or was that his heart?

“That’s how you’re here, now,” Bran continued, voice softened by something Jon couldn’t understand. “That’s how you’ve become _our_ king, who we need more than anyone in this time.”

“Don’t,” Jon growled, the sound welling from his broken chest. “That doesn’t right this wrong. You’re telling me that _my life_ is a _lie_. That the woman I love…is my aunt, as Father is my uncle?” Hands hot, he pressed the side of his curled palm into the hard, frozen bark. “She speaks of Rhaegar! She remembers him! Loves him more than her cruel brother Viserys! And now I have to tell her that he is my father?”

His Head floated like the leaves of the heart tree. He shook it warily. “This will ruin her…”

Hesitantly Bran said, “…I think she’ll be fine. It’s you that I worry about.” Jon’s look was withering. “I’m very sorry for this.”

Jon lowered his eyes, tears springing, streaming down his face before he knew it. His voice was weak.

“I have to tell her.”

“…Yes.”

Even though his head was pounding, he heard the inflection. Voice hardened, Jon prompted, “But?”

“You can’t safely send this information to her while our home is infiltrated,” he said pointedly, and Jon knew he’d referred to Littlefinger and anyone on his roster. “Beyond the Neck, our enemies lie in wait, too.”

Bran’s argument was too compelling to counter. The enemies of House Stark were numerous. _Walder Frey in The Twins. Cersei Lannister in King’s Landing. Euron Greyjoy on Pyke. Everyone who isn’t us._

“Fine,” he said. “I won’t tell her.”

“Never?”

“It’s just not possible yet,” he sighed, but his strategic mind was buzzing as it hadn’t in some days. “We have to lay low. Gather our strength. Pretend all is well. In the future, we can use this secret to our fortune, when it’s most powerful.”

“That’s why Littlefinger’s still alive, is it?”

The reminder pained him, but he nodded. 

“For now, we have to make merry and play nice.” From the other pocket in his cloak, Jon withdrew the letter that had come in that morning, from Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor. He handed it to Bran. “Lord Wyman is sending thirty barrels of grain and salted meat. Lord Robbet Glover is coming from Deepwood Motte with twenty barrels of furs and leathers. The lords are in good spirits, I think because of my return. We’ll take their hospitality and agreeability as much as we can, so we can prepare _all_ of the North for Winter.”

Bran was gazing at him absently. He hadn’t seemed to hear him. “When will you return to her?” he asked.

“When the time is right.” Jon squinted at his brother. “You don’t like this plan of mine, do you?”

“No.”

“Bran,” he said impatiently, “I’ve enough to sort out, with our bannermen who are still fighting among themselves, the lords and their wants, and quite frankly, your bloody visions. When Daenerys and I meet again, she will have to deal with this secret. _We will._ At the very least, I can take care of what we have here so that when she comes to Winterfell, she won’t have to.”

“I see… Don’t wait too long, then.”

Exasperated with his reply—that it was all Bran had to say—Jon turned away, meaning to exit the godswood as swiftly as possible. Then Bran’s words hit his back.

“You can’t afford it, Jon! We can’t afford it!”

Jon tensed. He wanted to fight, to channel his ire for being lied to for so long, into something. But not at Bran. Jon turned back to him.

“Stop wasting your breath, little brother. I know what we can’t afford.”

Now it was Bran’s turn to squint. “I don’t think you do.”

_You know nothing._

Ygritte’s voice rose from another time, another place—unsettling Jon greatly. Unable to respond, he finally exited the godswood, focusing his attention on the sound of his boots crunching in the packed snow. Once he entered the courtyard, he was reminded of the work that awaited. Wishing to focus on that, rather than the falseness that was his life, he headed for the lord’s study. His study.

When he got there, it was past high noon. His duties stood out before him, but he didn’t take out any parchment and quill, or the read the two new scrolls that Ser Davos had placed on his desk; nor did he answer the knock that came on his door a few long minutes later, while he gazed at the empty hearth. Instead, he lit a fire and warmed himself before it for some time. Then with trembling fingers, he unfolded the parchment from his cloak, set it under the light, and read Daenerys’s letter one more time:

 

_To Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell,_

_I have heard much about you, the last of Lord Eddard’s children. You and I have much in common. Two marriages. Families that have been torn asunder. Most of all, a woman’s determination. Out of the ashes of your enemies, you’ve been reborn to claim Winterfell’s crown, that which was stolen from your brother Robb Stark. Likewise, I have crossed the lands of Essos and have arrived on Dragonstone to claim my birthright. I will rule the Seven Kingdoms. All of them. Though I wish to avoid war if I can, my three large dragons have separate desires._

_For now, I would like to know how you and the North have fared since the Battle for Winterfell. If the North is to be mine, I must be brought to speed._

_In case you doubt the authenticity of my claims, My Lord Hand, Lord Tyrion Lannister, has sent another raven to you. He will tell you as I have. Do think about it. Young women like us should work together._

 

_\--Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name_

_Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_

 

 

Jon closed his eyes. The sound of the waves beyond the castle reached his ears, humming below the scrape of the quill as she worked. Jon remembered how beautiful Daenerys had been that morning—even the scent of her hair as he’d peered over her shoulder, verbally supporting her collaborative instincts and redirecting the harsher ones. Her motive to help Jon ensure a safe passage home was stamped between the lines. With her acting on the page, they’d found that Sansa was successful in the North, and that Bran and Arya were alive. Jon suspected that he would be moved to return her generosity, her cleverness, her love, for a long time.

That’s what made the truth of their blood relation so difficult to bear. Daenerys was the queen declarant and his aunt, but Jon was a man, the son of Prince Rhaegar. Didn’t that make him the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms? _It doesn’t matter. I don’t want it,_ he insisted. _But she deserves to know._ She also had the right to decide if she wanted to keep him or leave him, just as he’d made his decision once he knew.

He wanted a life with her—any kind he could get, happy or sad or dangerous, with or without the threat of the Others. Even if she no longer wanted him and they had to spend the rest of their days as if they’d never touched or kissed or embraced… He would do it.

Jon straightened.

One thing was certain, then. He couldn’t lose her out right.

 _When the time is right, I will tell her,_ he vowed to himself _. Whatever wrongs I commit along the way, I will amend. If I don’t, I will lose her and this will have been for nothing._

He committed the words to memory, holding himself to their promise.

If they rang hollow from his fear, he didn’t hear.

 

  

 

 

* ~ *~ *

_Winterfell_

289 AC

Winter

* ~ *~ *

Daenerys marveled at the shifting greens of _Rhaegal’s_ scales. The large dragon had perched on a cliff, and took some time to warm himself in the sun. Then he flew off into the sky. His excitement was palpable, but short-lived. Swiftly, an iron arrow the length of his wing flew to him and landed in his side. Another struck his wing. His growling screech preceded his fall from the sky. As the rushing air twisted his form, he spun, until suddenly his scales turned to skin; his limbs, his mass shrunken to the smallness of man.

Now it was Jon who fell so swiftly, he wasn’t prepared when the ice came up to meet him. Daenerys felt the sting of surprise as he crashed through. Though he was engulfed by the sea, his momentum didn’t slow or end. Neither did his panic. The water sucked him down, until he reached a vague place of darkness. It filled with snow, the mass so deep Daenerys felt his flesh freeze as he struggled to reach the surface—

She woke with a parched throat, and frigid bones. The fire in the hearth had gone out hours ago, which explained why it was so _cold._ But the dragon dream stunned her. Normally, they were at once frightening and exciting. Nothing about this turn of events—Rhaegal’s fall from gracious heights, Jon’s sudden death—excited her. She felt only fear. _That explains my heart,_ she thought, shifting to place a hand to her chest. It was as if the muscle wanted to get _up_ and _out._

Beyond her window, floating snow melted into the glass on impact. The sky was still dark, though lightening with the morning. Thankful it wasn’t too early to leave her bed, Daenerys called on Missandei to help her dress. The lilting accent of _Astapori Valyrian_ reached her at their doors, and she returned the playful curse to Grey Worm, waiting for his panic that she’d heard to subside, before returning to her room with Missandei.

In the silence, they combed her hair, dressed her in a dark winter gown, then began to braid the strands into something more formal for the day.

A knock came on her door. She let Ser Davos in, who revealed a rolled parchment in his hand.

“Good morning, your grace,” he said. “A raven’s come from the Citadel.”

When he didn’t say more, she prompted, “Is it for me?”

“Aye. If I may…it’s a shock to me, as well, your grace.”

Missandei took the scroll from his gloved hands. He nodded to her: a silent, _good luck._ Then he let himself out with a quiet closing of the door. The wax seal of the Citadel glowed bone white in the morning’s fire, cracking as Daenerys opened it. _The Citadel’s timing is perfection_ , she mused. The lords of the North were aware of the New Year’s arrival, set to come as soon as the morrow’s morning. That was why she’d braided her hair into a style more formal for the day. What unsettled her, however, was the fact of the letter’s designation to _her._

“If the Citadel knows I am in Winterfell, the lords of the other kingdoms do, as well. Cersei must be furious.”

Missandei lowered her eyes, amused. “It’s good we’ve left Dragonstone, then.”

“Almost,” Daenerys hummed. “If all goes well with these dead men and we return to Dragonstone…”  

“You would not allow her to send her forces on the island, would you?”

“Nothing is stopping her.” Daenerys gazed through the glass window. “She killed a quarter of the city to take the Crown. Before then, King’s Landing was nearly consumed by war with zealots of the Seven. She took that as an opportunity to hand out titles and lands to people that had no course, no reason and no right. Cersei Lannister _would_ try to give Dragonstone to some simple lord to undermine me.”

“But when we return,” Missandei insisted, “we will take it back from them.”

“Of course,” Daenerys nodded. “Dragonstone will never be lost to me and mine.”

When they entered the courtyard, dozens of ravens filled the expanse of the sky. They flew as one entity, but would soon separate to deliver Jon and Daenerys’s news across the realm, and to ask for support from the lords of the Great Houses. One was sent to King’s Landing, special for Cersei Lannister, should she ever wish to read it.

Daenerys rolled her eyes at the thought.

They met with Grey Worm, Ser Jorah and Lord Tyrion, to oversee her ranks of bloodriders and Unsullied. Their visits went over well enough that they were finished by noon. Then they visited the Tower of the Library for a small council meeting. Though she was attentive, the dream had followed her through her duties, preoccupying her.

After a quick lunch in the great hall, she met with Jon, in his study. It was their ritual: to spend time alone during the day, even if for an hour. She wanted to tell Jon about the dream. But he knew her dragon dreams always came true, so it was likely that he would panic. At first, she sat in the lord’s chair, gazing out of the window as they talked. But he knew something was wrong, so he prodded her until, exasperated, she turned to him.

“You really want to know what’s wrong? What has me so upset?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he stressed.

Perched on the edge of the desk, he kept his hands to himself, which told her that he was aware of how confused, how suspicious she still felt around him. His brow had furrowed, the frown on his lips matched hers, and her fingers clung tight to the arms of his chair.

“Last night, I had a dream.”

“A dragon dream?”

She nodded and watched him sit back, momentarily stunned. When his eyes found hers again, they were cautious.

“I saw _Rhaegal_ flying.” She swallowed thickly. “Then he fell. He turned into you. And then you fell. And then you died. You know my dreams come true.”

He nodded, but his eyes were sad. “Aye. You have the ability, as other Targaryens of the past have had.”

“That’s right,” she said. “So, what am I supposed to make of this?”

“Daenerys, I can’t explain _your_ dreams—”

“Enough with the evasion! Enough with the lies! Jon, I love you.” The words, her truth, were the weapon she needed. “I come to your bed so I can feel like _us_ again. I do these stupid talks with you. I think about you, always. _But I still don’t trust you._ How can I love you so deeply and still not trust you?” Though the answer was unclear, the means wasn’t. “You’ve some idea why! You were there! What does the dream mean? What are you not telling me?”

When he opened his mouth, she raised her hand to silence him. 

“ _Don’t lie._ ”

As he paused, he grew heavy, shoulders hunching. He shook his head to himself, a gesture so minute she wouldn’t have noticed. But when he bit his lip, he relayed his uncertainty, and Daenerys started when, as the skin broke, pain welled in his deep eyes.

“Then…I can’t say anything.”

Grief made his accent thicker, as thick as the insincerity in the air. She did not care. She’d seen the falling of his face, as he’d moved from one decision to another. _To keep the first lie, or lie another way, or stay silent?_ Though it pained him, Jon had chosen. Daenerys pushed herself to her feet.

“As we near the New Year, the Others approach the Wall. We’ve no idea what could happen along the way—in fact, we could die tomorrow, yet you’re going to lie to me.”

Since the moment they’d met, Jon had wanted her to hear him. But he had seemed to stop speaking a long time ago. His silence rendered her interrogation futile; sensing this, Daenerys gathered herself to leave. When she reached the great door, his voice rose again, quiet as the snows beyond the castle walls.

“I’m going to lose you, for good? Aren’t I?”

The phrasing incensed her. As she turned on her heel, she was momentarily stunned by the sight of him. A sharp gust of wind had thrown his window open, inviting the soft snows to filter into the study, melting onto the desk, the stone walls, every bit of fabric that lined his form. Handsome, strong, earnest Jon Snow had turned with her, body pitched forward as if he could hold her close once more. Daenerys shook her at him; discarded his desires, for they did not truly have _her_ in mind. If his lies, secrecy, silence meant anything…

All was suddenly cooler, clearer, like the soft caress of the snows. She didn’t know why she’d wanted to expand _home_ to include Winterfell. Jon might have been a bastard first, but he _was_ a Stark second, and she saw that now more than ever. Perhaps he had never had enough room for her, the foreign queen, once he was here.

The realization hurt her deeply, because Daenerys had spent her whole life searching for mutual understanding and support. All the same, she was rightfully indignant, for she deserved to be loved rightly and well. After drawing on a deep breath, her words came out hot and decisive. A proud display of her House words, _Fire and Blood._

“There are no phases to losing me. You either have me or you don’t, Jon Snow, and you lost me the moment you decided not to send a word to me—and all the times afterward. It took a long time for me to realize. But I see that, now.”

His face fell once more, so deep she could see lines of regret forming around his eyes. She didn’t wait for Jon’s response, delayed or not. She let herself out, swiftly and quickly, and ran down the hall to reach the exit. Right at the exit, she bumped into a woman larger than her, scarlet air glowing in the hall’s torchlight.

“Queen Daenerys!” she gasped. “Are you alright?”

“I am, Sansa,” Daenerys nodded. “I didn’t mean to run into you, dear.”

“Please, I—” She paused, blue eyes blinking to take her in. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Lady Brienne crossed the gate and entered the great hall, just behind Sansa. After she bowed to Daenerys, silently, she held a gloved palm to her, in which Sansa placed a leather-bound book and a few scrolls of parchment. Now that Sansa’s hands were free, she gently placed them on Daenerys’s arms, eyes holding hers as if to ask permission. The fact that she’d already done it anyway made Daenerys smile, just a little.

“You’re too kind,” she started, patting her hand. “Where were you coming from?”

“The Tower of the Library. I was actually—” She paused, swallowing thickly. “I met with Lord Tyrion, to see if we have any more materials on the Others. It’s been his way of making amends.”

Daenerys chuckled. “It’s a start.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, smile blooming. “We dug around for hours! But we actually found a few things that I’d like to run by you and Jon.”

Daenerys tried to hide it, but all humor fled at his name, and she watched Sansa’s eyes widen, _Oh no._

After some convincing of Lady Brienne, Sansa sent her lady knight— _and perhaps most trusted advisor?—_ to deposit the materials in her study. Lady Brienne did not want to be away from her, but Sansa insisted she get some rest, or at least get some time to spend on her own wants, so with a grudging nod, Lady Brienne said she would see her later that evening. Sansa suggested a walk, but Daenerys hadn’t had a good ride in weeks, so the lady followed her to the stables, where they found two mares. Soon, they were beyond the castle walls, riding free down the kingsroad.

All the while, Daenerys enjoyed the pull of the reins, the push of the mare’s muscles beneath her legs, the air rushing into her lungs, whipping through her hair, cleansing her eyes. The pair trotted into the Wolfswood, and for a time Sansa took Daenerys through the parts where her father and brothers used to hunt. Eventually, they exited the forest and reached the kingsroad again. To the east, the tent cities of her armies stood starkly against the snows. Northward, Winterfell was a large, formidable blip on the horizon. Daenerys sighed in relief, grateful to be away for the moment.

“Daenerys, if I may…?”

She didn’t even hesitate at the use of her name. She nodded to Sansa, who continued.

“When you sent that first letter from Dragonstone, I didn’t know what to expect. News beyond the realm don’t reach this far north often, so I hadn’t heard much of you. Of course, you were absolutely intimidating! But when I realized your letter was a word of warning, that you weren’t already flying your dragons northward as one would expect of Targaryens of the past, I sensed there was something to trust in you.”

Daenerys sighed. “I just wanted to go for a ride, Sansa. You don’t need to do this.”

“I care about you. So, I do need to this. After all you’ve told me, about your dragons and the people who fight in your name, and the battles you’ve fought to get _here_ , I know that you should be happy. Yet when I look at you, I see that you’d have been happier fighting a war against Cersei Lannister, rather than dealing with my stupid brother up here. I don’t know what Jon has done to take away so much of your joy. It’s not like him, so I’m concerned for him, as well. But what I mean to say is…House Stark cares about you, Queen Daenerys, beyond politics. We will always welcome you. If you would like, Winterfell could be your home, too.”

“Thank you, Sansa. That means a lot.” Her voice was a murmur, as her churning mind moved onto other matters. “You say you don’t know what Jon has done. What if I told you that he lied? That I get the sense he’s been lying for _months_ , to the point where he won’t even deny it? He is just _silent_.”

Sansa started. The pause swelled for so long, Daenerys turned to her and caught the furrowing of her brow, as if trying to solve a difficult problem.

“I…don’t understand. He’s silent?”

“Yes.”

Sansa paused again. “It’s unlike him to lie, so when he does, it’s for a reason.”

“What if the reason does not serve?”

“Well…” Sansa sighed. “It’s good that you haven’t married, then.”

Her response saddened Daenerys. If it was clear to Sansa that their issues could end them for good, they had a serious problem. Jon felt the same. Daenerys had even said so: _you lost me a long time ago._ Yes, her heart pulsed with pain. But had she truly meant what she said? Had the time come to take steps away from Jon? She must have looked particularly troubled, because Sansa inched her mare to Daenerys’s and reached across to pull her into a hug. Though their horses skittered, Daenerys held tight, grateful she could call Sansa Stark a friend. Once they pulled away, Sansa shifted and withdrew a scroll from her cloak. Daenerys’s eyes narrowed at the strange occurrence, but quickly softened at Sansa’s laughter.

“Since we all returned to Winterfell, I’ve picked up a few of Jon’s habits,” she said, gazing at the scroll. “I carry items that make me feel more connected, so I can remember what I do all of this for, beyond the history of my family.”

Daenerys knew what she meant. _Beyond the past._

Sansa continued. “You wrote this, Daenerys. You delivered it directly to me, when you didn’t have to. I’ll never forget your gesture of friendship and trust. For what it’s worth…whenever you feel this way, I want you to remember what we set out to do. I want you to remember who you showed yourself to be, to me.”

She gave the parchment to her. Daenerys refused, since she was the one who wrote the letter. But Sansa’s eyes were insistent and sincere. Brow furrowed, Daenerys took it from her and read it.

 

 

_To Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell,_

_I’ll begin by expressing my thanks to you. At the time, you were not aware of this, but I imagine that Jon has informed you. My first letter to you was a test, to see how Winterfell was faring. When you replied, appearing to be thriving, you cleared a path for Jon to return home. Thank you for supporting him since his return. I appreciate the shine in his eyes and his strength. His pride, however, is new and most unwelcome to me._

_There are matters I wish to clear up. I fear Jon’s second visit to Dragonstone may make me out to be a woman that I am not. Yes, I have come to Westeros to claim the Iron Throne, for it is my birthright. But when I found Jon and brought him to Dragonstone to heal his injuries, I had not expected to discover such a brilliant man. We agreed that when he returned to Winterfell, he would tell the lords of the North about my campaign and my desire to provide aid, under my rule, of course. Instead, he has become your King and has refused to bend the knee, until I threatened him into submission. I am not a monster. I am a Queen who wishes to end the wars that have ravished this country, my home. Cersei will watch the Seven Kingdoms burn. Only I have the desire, the will, and the ability to bring them into a new era of prosperity. Only I have the dragons and the armies that are poised to defeat the Others! So please, do not think I am a monster. As I rule, I protect and provide. I believe you understand what this means for a woman, in a world that only wants our sacrifice and silence._

_This is our third correspondence. I do not know what it will be like when we meet. I promise to be nice, if you do. I look forward to doing this with you, whatever it may become._

_\--Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name_

_Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_

 

  

Sansa read the last line aloud. Moved, Daenerys met her kind eyes.

“You carry _my words_ in your pocket?”

Sansa smiled. “When Jon had just come from Dragonstone, he asked for the letter you sent. I thought it was a strange thing to carry, but it made him happy so I didn’t press it. Eventually, I understood the meaning. This letter is significant to me, because the moment you handed it to me, I realized we _can_ lean on someone else for support. It may not be perfect nor simple, but the North can trust a Targaryen reign.” 

“Of course, you can,” Daenerys chuckled. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along. If I’m honest, I made the choice the moment I met Jon. It was everything about him…” She trailed off. “That’s it, isn’t it? You Starks live and breathe the North. What if I can’t?”

“No one is asking that of you,” Sansa said, amused. “Do you think Jon has an easy time adjusting to your Targaryen _Fire and Blood_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Daenerys insisted, and she had to laugh at her own earnestness.

“Even if that is the case,” Sansa chuckled, “I don’t think, _what if I can’t,_ is the question you meant to ask.”

Brows raised, Daenerys just looked at her. Sansa shook her head.

“Have faith, Daenerys. If Jon is lying to you, we’ll give him hell for it, and then we’ll get you two through this. But we can only handle one thing at a time.” She looked up, eyes tracing the descent of the sun behind the clouds. “For example, now, the time has come to handle Littlefinger.”

A pulse of excitement ran through Daenerys at the reminder. The time had come for her, Sansa, Arya and Bran to hatch their plan and finally put Lord Petyr Baelish on trial. If the realm were to be safer without his shadow in the coming wars, the trial would end in his death. Aware of the graveness in which their plan would conclude, the short journey back to the castle was quiet. Soon, the castle’s buzz reached their ears. The New Year was set to begin the next morning. There was no better way to end this one.

After they returned their horses to the stables, Daenerys and Sansa said their goodbyes for the time. 

 

_______________

  

Later that evening, Daenerys entered the great hall with an entourage. Her small council was at her side, while her generals, Grey Worm and Qotho, trailed behind with a handful of their most trusted men. She could feel them compulsively pat their sides, uneasy without their weapons. But she had reminded them of the event that mandated no weapons, before assuring them all would be fine. Their attention was quickly taken by the hall’s beauty: grey Stark tapestries hung from the walls, and were even dotted by the odd black and red tapestry of House Targaryen. Appreciating Jon’s effort (even that of his liege lords), Daenerys smiled as her entourage seated themselves at one of the front tables.

As she spoke with Ser Jorah and Lord Tyrion about the New Year feast, Missandei huddled next to Grey Worm. None of her advisors had been keen on hers and the Starks’s plot to de-mask Littlefinger, but their hesitation irritated her.

“If you continue this way, we’ll be found before anything has happened,” she warned.

“Apologies,” said Lord Tyrion. “The sooner this is over, the better.”

“Just keep quiet, everyone. Alright?”

They nodded. Ser Jorah’s expression was grimmest, but he let her go on, anyway. _Not that he can stop me._ Shaking her head, Daenerys stepped over to the great table at the front of the hall and seated herself in the center, beside Jon. Leaning into her, he whispered, “You look beautiful.”

Brow quirked, she turned to him. _Though I do this for you and the realm, I am not speaking to you._ She wanted to say so, but before she could, commotion sprung up at the end of the hall. Though at first sounding quarrelsome, it was nothing but their guests cheerfully reacting to the servants who were pouring into the hall. Loads of food and drink soon dotted the tables. Talk and laughter filled the air.

She kept herself busy in conversation with Sansa. Even during a feast, Lord Baelish managed to work a room, so Sansa threw him the occasional friendly nod to keep track of his location. But Daenerys found false pleasantries more difficult, so she made sure not to meet the lord’s eyes, lest she give away her derision. For his part, Jon quickly realized that Daenerys did not wish to speak with him, so he conversed with Ser Davos on his other side. At one point, Arya came over to taunt Jon and Daenerys about their mutual silence. Jon disagreed good naturedly, but Daenerys just told her to take her seat and earned the girl’s mischievous smirk. Once the last course arrived, Jon moved to his feet, and the hall fell silent.

When he was finished, Daenerys would to rise to speak. Sansa would join and send Lord Baelish forward. The Lords of the Vale despised him and his designs on the late Lady Lysa and Lord Robyn, so they would gladly put him on trial. The lords of the North, however, were unfamiliar with him, so they were the ones to be careful with. Sansa was certain that once Bran mentioned the lord’s greatest secret plots, against their lady mother, her sister, her and lastly Jon, he would have no room to deny and enough people would support his immediate execution.

Jon began.

“I have been told that when my father died, all of the North wept for him, from the Wolfswood to the shores of the Shivering Sea. It is true that afterward, my brother Robb Stark garrisoned in Winterfell and marched south, where he lost the North. Despite Houses that wished to weaken us through divisive means, we never stopped fighting. We renovated our castles, rebuilt our alliances, and re-stocked our granaries. Your fighting, loyal spirit makes me proud to be your king.”

Just as Jon paused for a breath, the hall swelled with cheerful shouts. Jon nodded to them. 

“Winter has come, and despite our recent suffering, we have come together to prepare for the storms and the army of the dead. It has been my greatest honor to receive the Houses Glover and Karstark, Flint and Cerwyn, Dustin, Manderly and Mormont. I am also happy to host the lords of the Vale, for they’ve come in support of my sister, Sansa Stark. Without them, Winterfell would have been lost to House Stark forever…and I never would have been blessed to meet Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

The hall swelled with a collective hush of surprise. Daenerys, too, for she hadn’t expected to be mentioned so intimately. Jon nodded to her. Squaring her shoulders,Daenerys raised her chin. All eyes flitted between the pair, more intrigued and accepting than they’d been in the past. There was even the cheerful, “Aye!” peppered around the hall, followed by a few thumps on the tables. Reminded of her moments with the freed slaves of _Meereen_ , the women of the _dosh khaleen_ and the Unsullied, Daenerys smiled.

“Similarities between my brother and I end with our titles. House Stark’s alliance with House Targaryen is truer and more powerful than any in the Seven Kingdoms. Together, we will see ourselves through Winter and the Great War. Together, we will see Spring, and the North will rise. May the year 290 AC be the best to come.”

When the room erupted, Jon allowed a smile.

“As always, Queen Daenerys needs no introduction from me.”

Daenerys was surprised by how excited she was to speak. She moved to her feet as Jon sunk into his seat—just as an arrow sailed through the air, aiming for his heart. The hall fell into choked silence for a heartbeat, before it swelled with commotion. Breath caught in her throat, Daenerys mouthed Jon’s name as his chair tumbled backward. He had moved in time for the arrow to miss him, so he was rolling behind the chair, crouching before she could reach him. Beyond their bubble, the hall burst into chaos.

“Daenerys!” he called. “Get down!”

She shuffled onto the floor with Sansa. Arya had pulled Bran out of his chair and shoved his long body underneath the great table. When Sansa pulled Daenerys close, she resisted, instead watching for Jon because no one else seemed to. She watched him duck out from under the great table and cross to the table where her council was seated. A peak above revealed a clash of armored men at the end of the hall, before the open double doors. There were no weapons but for the small crossbow that sailed through the air. A bannerman of House Flint caught it, threw it to the floor and smashed it under his heel.

“Who would dare strike at the King in the North?” Lord Robbet Glover bellowed, pushing between the mass of men to get at the culprit. Daenerys’s eyes widened when she realized that Jon, however, had already disappeared. She turned over her shoulder. Sansa and Bran were with her. She peaked over and saw Ser Jorah making his way to them, while Arya sleuthed along the walls, shrouded in shadow. Daenerys found Littlefinger behind the mass of men, on the wall, just as Ser Jorah reached down for her. She clasped his hand and took him down, where he would be protected behind the table.

“Your grace!” he gasped. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, but Jon isn’t! Where is he?”

“Is he hurt?”

“No! The arrow didn’t strike him. Where is he? Can you see him?”

Ser Jorah peaked above the table for a long moment, before returning. “No.”

Daenerys shouted, exasperated. “We have to do something! That was one of Littlefinger’s men! He tried to kill Jon again!”

“Don’t worry,” Sansa said, shaking fingers grasping her arm. “He’s probably under one of the tables. Arya will—”

“Nothing is certain,” Daenerys snapped. “That arrow could have hit me, too. I will not wait here to die.”

“ _Khaleesi_ , please,” said Ser Jorah. “No one is letting you die.” He looked above the table again. “Jon has appeared. The men have trapped someone—”

“ _Enough!_ ”

Arya’s voice cut through the mayhem, high and shrill and furious. She had Lord Baelish trapped against her, with her Valyrian blade at his throat. Household members and those who could not fight, came out from under the tables—while the men at the door stepped away from the mass, and a few pulled a stranger to his feet. Their blows had left the man’s face bloodied, but he still had consciousness, which was all they needed. Jon was one of the men who had pulled him up, and he stood toe to toe with him, to get a good look. Arya called for his attention, which took the rest of their guests as well. Daenerys watched Jon’s eyes widen, but he did not speak. She moved to her feet with the others at the great table. 

“Lord Petyr Baelish,” Arya started, between her teeth. “You’ve been accused of conspiring against Houses Stark, Tully and Arryn. Now, you stand trial for your crimes. Do you have anything to say?”

The lord’s brown eyes flitted around the room. He seemed to be unused to so much attention, even shied away from it. When he found Sansa, he called for her.

“Sansa, please! Can’t we talk about this?” But Sansa only lifted her chin. “My lords, I don’t know the details of these charges. Give me a chance to defend myself!”

“Lord Baelish,” Sansa began. “We are all aware of how deep your coins run in the pockets of Westeros. Wealth is not evidence enough. But it’s clear that you’ve been instrumental to nearly every major event in Westeros, for the past decade. Shall we begin with your plots against Houses Arryn and Tully?”

His response was a mere, fearful gulp.

Bran spoke up. He went through everything, from the years Lord Petyr spent turning Ladies Lysa and Catelyn Tully against one another, killing Lord Jon Arryn and sending an assassin to kill Bran after he lost the use of his legs.

“The blade Arya holds to your throat is the one the assassin used on me.” Bran’s voice boomed. “But you didn’t end there. You allowed our father to be cornered alone in King’s Landing, which was quickly followed by his execution. You later married Sansa to Ramsay Bolton, a stranger, knowing she was powerless to his whim.”

“Please, my lord! Stop…”

“In the same breadth that you came to Sansa’s aid at the battle, you then sent five Bolton men to capture and escort Jon out of the North, and upon doing so, to assassinate him.”

A gasp went around the room. The moment of truth had come so swiftly, Daenerys only just caught Jon’s reaction. But he didn’t seemed shocked; more subdued, as if resigned and disillusioned. As he deflated under the weight of their gazes, Daenerys sensed his shame at what Littlefinger had done to him, that he hadn’t wished his siblings, who look to him for support, to know. Daenerys frowned thoughtfully, sympathetically. If he felt so deeply about the consequences…had he known all along?

Bran continued. “You later conspired to pit Arya and Sansa against each other, as you had with our lady mother and aunt. But they resisted you, and allowed you to keep your head this long. Do you know why, my lord?”

Even with a blade at his throat, the man kept his wits. He kept his eyes on Sansa, silently pleading with her. Though Sansa held her own, Daenerys stood beside her, anyway.

“To protect Jon,” Bran supplied. “But he doesn’t need protection from you. Neither does Queen Daenerys. We are stronger than you. You will never be _king of the ashes._ ”

Lord Petyr gasped in horror, then winced at the blade against his throat. “Sansa, please. I love you. I’ve done everything for you!”

“I know what you’ve done for me, Petyr. Thank you for teaching me. Our lessons end here.”

As his face fell, a shiver came over him, and he was soon reduced to quivering. Lord Petyr Baelish had become a man who knew he was going to die and had not prepared for it. Daenerys smirked, pleased to find his weakness. When the Starks looked to her, she addressed him.

“Do you have any final words, Lord Baelish?” He whipped his head around, eyes finding her. He only swallowed thickly—and from the other end of the hall, Daenerys preened at his thoughts of death by dragonflame. “Your whims know no bounds. You are loyal to no one other than yourself. And your desire for chaos puts the realm at an unforgivable disadvantage in the wars to come.” She addressed the hall at large. “My lords, my ladies, you have been briefed on the extent of the charges and the evidence at hand. My jurisdiction as the Queen Paramount, in support of the King in the North—”

She looked to Jon, who steeled himself with a breath, then nodded.

“—allows me to order Lord Baelish’s swift execution. If you believe he is innocent of the crimes described, please speak up.” There was nothing. “Very well. Arya.”

She dragged the blade against his throat and stepped away, toward where Jon and the other men held Littlefinger’s assassin. They didn’t give the man time to speak. Arya stepped behind him, slit his throat, then went to Jon’s side and cleaned her blade. Now the threat was gone, relief flooded through her and tears prickled at her eyes. Her heart murmured in her chest, overwhelmed at the sight of Jon, whole and shaken and assuring his little sister with absent eyes. Suddenly, she could barely speak.

“This has been a trying evening. You may retire if you wish, but I urge everyone else to stay for the festivities, so once the hour of the wolf arrives, we may celebrate the New Year together. We have certainly earned this one.”

She hadn’t expected the round of laughter it caused, but chortled along, pleased. Yet her mind was absent as she checked in with Ser Jorah and her small council at their table. She kept her eyes on Jon’s location. The compulsion was nothing rational—for she was reeling at Jon’s sudden brush with death. All the same, she soon left her advisors to trade hugs with Arya, Sansa and Bran, before finally turning to Jon, who hadn’t moved five hands from the blooded wet spot that marked the assassin’s death. As Daenerys had moved across the hall, he had nodded and murmured to his liege lords, shaking hands and exchanging brotherly embraces with Ser Davos and a few of his men. When she came to him, he turned to her, and closed his eyes as she brought her hands to his face, relieved and terrified.

 _I almost lost you_.

Daenerys’s breath caught at the realization, solid as stone. His hands took hers, palms trembling, eyes searching hers. She didn’t know what he needed, but hoped it was the same as hers. Without a word to anyone, she and Jon turned around to exit the great hall. Protests followed their backs.

“You can’t take him! He almost died, your grace! He’s our king!”

“And who am I?” she snapped. “Do not forget me, my lords.”

Daenerys’s mood matched Jon’s on the way out. Jaw tightened, he grabbed Longclaw from the guard at the exit, then silently entered the courtyard with her. Her feet took her to the north battlements that overlooked the Lonely Hills, while Jon followed. Once they were beyond prying eyes and ears, Daenerys tilted her head to the sky and breathed a sigh of relief. But she kept walking, as if there was more room to take.

“Daenerys…” His voice was dry. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. I want to find _Drogon_. I’d like to fly.” Squinting in the lightly falling snow, she corrected herself. “I _need_ to fly.”

He laughed. The sound was so sudden she glanced at him in pleasant surprise. Sheepish, he dipped his head. “Did you know about Littlefinger? Is that what you were planning all along, with my brother and sisters?”

“Yes,” she answered, crossing her arms before her. “It’s good we did, too. Otherwise, no one would have been prepared to execute him, then and there. But you…?”

“Aye.” He swallowed thickly. “I’ve known what he’d planned against me for a long time. I didn’t want to hurt them, so I kept it secret. I wanted to use it when it was most powerful. But it seems I didn’t need to worry.”

Daenerys shook her head at him. “They’ve always wanted to protect you.”

“And you?”

It was hard to accept the intimacy with which they spoke. It was even harder to be honest, when Jon had spent so long not doing so. Reluctantly, Daenerys said, “You don’t need to ask. There is something about you…that makes it _so_ hard to lose you. Do you understand that?”

“I’m sorry,” he frowned deeply. “This is a shit world we leave in, Daenerys. When we try to change things, people try to kill us. I lost my life once, trying to do the right thing. The rest is just…living on borrowed time.”

“Is that how you feel?”

“Not often. In moments like these, I do, when I have to see my brother and sisters kill someone, which I never wanted for them. When you look at me this way…” He sighed deeply, gloved fingers rubbing his palms with some agitating emotion. “I never apologized to you, about when I… Even though we hadn’t met…I was gone and you didn’t know. I can’t imagine the world without you, so how could you have…?”

“Stop,” Daenerys murmured. “You don’t need to apologize for that.”

“How did you feel?” he asked, earnest. “When I told you? When you saw the scars?”

Though she was mildly stunned by the turn their conversation was turning, Daenerys recalled that cool night on Dragonstone. As her pleasure dried on his lips, he vowed, _I am yours._ She asked him to prove it, to show her what he’d kept hidden beneath his clothes. His knife wounds were numerous, peppering his torso with aching grief that would never heal. Daenerys closed her eyes as the feeling rose within her again.

“More or less, I feel the same right now.” She swallowed thickly. “I was terrified by the suffering you’d endured, how they betrayed you, and that you died alone. I was angry that I didn’t get to mourn you. And I was sure that if I’d known you then, I would have brought justice to all who wronged you.”

His breath hitched—an awful, pained sound. He tore off a glove and pressed a shaking hand to a tear, wiping it away. Sensing how important her words were, she took Jon’s arm to catch his eye and kept going.

“I couldn’t believe you were given life again, but the fact that you were before me proved so. I was amazed, awed that it didn’t sully you. I wanted to be _yours_ : a man who is so good, so loved, that he is chosen to continue his fight.” She paused as her heart swelled. “When you told me of what happened to you, I was terrified by the feeling you inspired in me, but I accepted it because it is mine.”

“But I haven’t done the same.”

She stopped outright, lips parting in shock. Jon had his eyes closed, brow furrowed as he took deep, straining breaths—as if gearing himself for something painful. Daenerys took the moment to prepare herself, as well. Yet when he continued, tears came to her eyes, and she knew the effort was futile.

“Daenerys…” He met her eyes. “From the moment I saw you on that rock, I loved you. When I clung to you on _Drogon’s_ back, I felt it in my bones. That you and I are one. That I had somehow found my home. I tried to build a life with you. I tried to love you right and well—with everything I had. But I still failed you.”

Daenerys’s breath caught as her tears spilled. Quickly, she wiped them away, but all the words she had held over the months of silence welled into her mouth as a dry sob. Concerned, he stepped closer but she stepped away, and he dropped his hands slowly, nodding.  

“You saw to your responsibilities, did all you could to hold up your part in our union. But I was a coward, though I convinced myself I wasn’t. I was wracked by fear that I would lose you—so I stayed silent, I lied, I kept secrets.” When another tear rose, he let it fall. “I made you feel like there wasn’t enough room for you in my life. I made you feel alone. For that, I am most sorry.”

His final words undid all of her composure. Softly, Jon tracked closer and drew his arms around her as she cried _. I’m sorry_ , he murmured into her hair _. I know I lost you. I’m so sorry._ Surrounded by his furs, his voice, his scent, Daenerys melted into his embrace. However, aware that her wishes for simplicity revealed what was wrong between them, she eventually pushed him away. When he straightened, his deep eyes were bright on hers.

“Here is the truth. Eddard Stark was not my father. He was my uncle. His sister was my mother. Lyanna, whom most of the realm believes Rhaegar captured.” Jon took a deep breath. “My mother and your brother were lovers. And they had me. Daenerys…I’m so sorry.”

The snows, the sounds of the castle below, the silent night—all converged into one, fine moment. Suddenly lightheaded, Daenerys blinked, as images of her dragon dream came to mind.

“ _Rhaegal_ ,” she sneered. “You always got along well with him! Is that it, then? That’s what the dream was about?”

“I’m sorry, Daenerys.”

Her steps took her closer to him, hands reaching out to grab and push and make him hurt—even just a fraction of what he’d inflicted on her.

“Was it Bran?” she screamed. “Does he know this for certain?”

“Yes—”

“Then, how long have you known, Jon?”

“For a long time,” he said thickly. “Months.”

“Months?! How could you? I don’t understand!” Her hands were hitting his chest now, pummeling, though he kept his footing. “You know how Targaryens have coupled to keep the line pure! I spent most of my childhood, thinking I’d be wed to Viserys! How could you keep this from me?”

“For that very reason! This is the kind of coupling that hurts—both parties, the children, the family!”

But she smelled bullshit. Pointedly, she said, “You made love to me, long after you knew. Once you accepted the consequences, what kept you from telling me?”

“I couldn’t send a raven because it could have been interrupted. After a point, I thought I’d lose you. I don’t know what I waited for—”

“You _waited_ to lose me!”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Daenerys.” 

She wouldn’t hear it. Not again.

“I’ve been the last of my name for years! You had no right to keep this from me! It’s my right to know I’m not alone in this world!”

Her voice pitched deep with grief, so fierce it nearly sent her to her knees. Distantly, voices rose from below, footsteps crunching in the packed snow, Northern accents piercing their bubble of privacy. But Daenerys focused on Jon’s hands reaching for her, holding her close. She pulled away enough to take his face in her hands, eyes tracing the planes she knew so well. Throat parched, she worked for her words.

“How could you think that I would do anything but accept you?”

Under her tenderness, his eyes closed and a final tear fell. Regret filled every line of Jon’s face—but she didn’t forgive him. Ire spiking, Daenerys pushed at his chest again, hard enough for him to shuffle backwards.

“You stupid!” Another push. “Foolish man!”

She pushed him once more—but it went too far. In a ruffle of fabric, a shocked breath, Jon separated from her fingertips and tipped over the edge of the stone battlements, disappearing as if he’d never been. The darkness beyond the castle walls swallowed him whole. Daenerys didn’t think, for there was no time. After a deep breath, she followed his descent into the snowbank.

Just like in her dream, the crash came with a sting of surprise. The world seemed to fill with ice and snow, quickly stealing her breath and freezing flesh. As she struggled to locate the direction of the surface, a hand found hers and tugged, _hard._ The snows parted for her, as she kicked her legs, fighting like all the other times that had come before. Eventually she reached the surface, before hers and Jon’s gasps for breath filled the frigid night.

Once her head was no longer swimming, Daenerys merely blinked at him. For suddenly, she knew what it was like to reborn by ice _._

Certainly, she preferred fire.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's a lot to digest. Please take your time, and let me know what you think! But before I go, I want to make this clear: as the title of the chapter says, now that the secret is out, Jon and Dany are almost home. Can you feel it? 
> 
> In the final chapter (I know, I cried wolf!), in the present, Dany and Jon warm themselves on Drogon's scales and talk about how they can come together again. In the past, Jon begins to make amends and travels to Dragonstone. Then finally, in the present, the Others make their appearance. 
> 
> Lastly, I took some liberty with the years (288 AC, etc.) They're not canon-accurate, but for the sake of the story, the new year is 290 AC, because 302 AC isn't as sexy. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	4. Have Some Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm very late, I know! But I had to get my mind right and see where this was heading, you know? I love this story down to my toes, so I appreciate the continued kudos, comments, and nudges to update. It worked! Here’s this chapter’s summary: 
> 
> Present: Dany has a terrible vision. Jon learns to grow from his failures.  
> Past: Jon seeks Daenerys’s forgiveness and alliance on Dragonstone.  
> Present: During Winter’s last sunny days, the gang searches for a missing dragon.
> 
> Also, I broke the rule about Jon’s POV exclusively being in the past, as it didn't work for some and tbh it was easier. So screw rules, I'll let you know what's going down in the chapter as it happens. This chap begins with Jon’s POV in the present, immediately following their fight about his secret-keeping. Happy reading and power to the people. <3

//

Winterfell

290 AC

Winter

// 

It was dark where they’d pulled themselves from the snowbank, stunned and wet and shivering. They had tumbled in close to the castle, but had come out far enough that with vicious whipping winds, Jon was certain they’d been turned around twice, now. They hadn’t talked about the secret that had pushed him over the battlements and sent Daenerys after him, for instead they were saving their energy for the task at hand. But the way she had started to weave through the snow, knees barely clearing the surface, made him think something else was wrong. 

He wanted to tell her he knew he’d pushed her too far and that he _knew_ she loved him enough and was good enough to not think twice about coming in after him… Wishing to tell her this, he had stopped her and tried to coax her into speaking, only to hear her many titles rise above the wind, rotating endlessly. Her eyes were far ahead. She saw something he couldn’t. He was deeply troubled. 

At that point, he draped his cloak around her shoulders, hoping the added layer of fur would revive her. The castle could not be seen in the dark and the monstrous storm that had come upon the North for the New Year. He was already feeling the thought of losing her sink to his bones, so he cupped his hands and yelled into the night, crying for _Drogon._ Occasionally he looked over his shoulder, each time disappointed that Daenerys had not yet come to.

 _There is nothing worse than failing to protect the ones you love._ He hadn’t felt so pathetic in a long time _,_ hadn’t thought these words in a long time. Was this the only way he was going to learn that he had to do his best for the ones who loved him? _Because when I fail them…_ He turned to Daenerys again, hoping…but she was still far off. Angry tears rose in his eyes and he wiped them away, cupped his hands and screamed himself raw.  

Despite her secret designs for Littlefinger’s trial and his secret about his parentage, Daenerys and Jon had made it a habit to tell each other everything, hoping to foster the trust they’d had upon meeting. She knew that Bran’s _greenseeing_ sometimes scared Jon, but never enough for him to distrust his brother. And he knew that as Winter deepened, Daenerys had had disturbing visions of the Red Keep, in which it was war-battered and uninhabitable, and she was unable to look past the throne room, frightened beyond words.

Noting the lines of fear in her face, Jon was certain that’s what happened. He took a moment away from his calling for the dragon, kneeling beside Daenerys and drawing her into his arms. He was growing colder by the moment in just his boiled armor, but she needed him, and he had to start loving her, devoting himself to her again, somehow. 

_______________ 

 

After a moment, her murmurings ceased and he paused hopefully. She turned into his embrace stiffly and anchored onto him. 

“Jon…” Her sobs were silent. She cried into his arm.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, meaning it from his soul. “I pushed you too far.”

“Yes!” she snapped. “I’m sorry I pushed you off, but you deserved it! You are so foolish!”

“I know…”

She paused. “How did we survive?” she asked suddenly.

“I pulled you out. But the snows kept turning us around. We’re about a league outside of the castle walls.”

She looked around, gaze swallowed by the impeding dark. Wanting to skip past the devastation of their situation, Jon said, “I started calling for _Drogon_.”

Frowning, she tucked her chin into his cloak. He peered for her eyes and when she blinked at him, he was grateful she didn’t look away. “I heard,” she said, “but I couldn’t pull myself awake…” Her eyes drifted off and she swallowed thickly. “I saw it again. The Red Keep.”

He frowned. “That’s what I thought. Do you think _Drogon_ will be here soon?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.”

He cleared some snow nearby and got himself comfortable next to her. She gave him half of the cloak to wrap around his shoulder and they scooted together. Jon had already taken her hands, trying to warm them, when she tugged away uncertainly.  

“Let the foolish man warm your hands while we wait,” he offered. “It’s the least I can do. Besides, you’re freezing.”

Her brows rose. Noticing the collection of snowflakes that lined the hairs, he wiped them away with his thumb and pulled Daenerys close below the cloak. Arm around his waist, she curled into him as best as she could and he tucked his chin into her hair.

He murmured nothings to further calm her down from the terror of her dream, but he was soon hushed by the cold. Silently, they waited until _Drogon_ came. Soon he did, screaming at Jon in a way the man didn’t understand, until he watched Daenerys climb onto his back, frigid and soaked to the bone in her mink gown. Jon murmured an ashamed apology to the intelligent creature, then carefully joined her on his back. Immediately, the plumes of heat coming from his scales warmed him. He was going to ask what she needed, what he could do for her, but Daenerys had already rolled over onto her back and was looking up to dark. After a confused beat, Jon finally turned on his back, too. When he looked to her, she was already looking at him, and his heart spiked. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry to return to the castle, so he moved closer and offered her part of his cloak again, which she took gratefully. 

“Can I tell you something?” he asked.

“You haven’t asked me that in a long time. Usually you say, ‘I have something to tell you’. Or, ‘there’s something you need to know’. Or, ‘here is the truth, I’ve lied to you for months’. Look at you, Jon Snow, intriguing me. Giving me space to hurt and feel like you do. Trying to protect me. Loving me.” Jon lowered his eyes. After considering him for a moment, she said softly, “Yes, you may tell me something. What is it?”

“You’re right,” he said solemnly. “And thank you for taking a chance on me. I mentioned this before, back there.” He pointed to the castle. “I think I’ve been afraid to lose you, ever since I met you. At the time, I wasn’t quite right. After the mutiny and the battle and my capture…I was not well, to be honest.”

She shifted to sit up fully, wide violet eyes searching his. “You never told me.”

“Well,” he mused, “I didn’t feel that way around you. I felt safe, like I could do anything, be everything I am. You _unburdened_ me, Daenerys.”

She nodded as if to say she knew. “I’ve always accepted you.”

“You _have._ And I am so grateful. But I’m still a coward. I have everything I’ve ever wanted and I’ve never been more afraid than I have been these past two years. At the thought of losing it all to the Others, or because we’re related, or because our babes could be _mad_ … It’s as if everything is squeezing into one fine point.” He sighed deeply. “I’ve wanted to be better to you but I keep failing. I need the strength to overcome it.” 

She said nothing, eyes flashing with pain. His words were too sharp. Jon lowered his eyes again.

“The worst part is that it took losing you by my own hand to remember that I have to protect the ones I love.”

“You don’t think you have…? Not really?”

“I must have,” he said remorsefully, though grateful for her faith in him. “I’ve been selfish. I pushed you too far. I pushed you to the point of having another damned vision of the Red Keep _out_ _in this storm_. Are you alright?”

Daenerys was quiet for another long moment, gaze returned to the sky. _Drogon_ shifted below as he breathed deeply.

“My visions in the House of the Undying were prophecies,” she began _._ “I saw events that have happened in the past and some that were to happen since that day. I saw Rhaegar. Although Lyanna Stark never appeared, I know my brother well enough to see him in you, so clearly…” Jon took a deep, shuddering breath. Gazing at _Drogon’s_ black scales, she continued, “Although my dragons are never present in this dream, something about it feels just as real _,_ just as certain. The Red Keep _will_ be in ruins, if it isn’t already. You and I…are the last Targaryens.”

“Aye,” he concurred quietly. “We are.”

“So, we can’t let that happen.”

She finally turned her churning eyes on him. He loved her so much that meeting her gaze was like looking into an open wound. His instinct was to press his thumb into it, to mull the throbbing ache. But Daenerys didn’t want comfort. She wanted her worries to be erased, just like he did. She was afraid of losing it all, too, and that looked like a shelled Red Keep. Still, she continued to be so _brave_ about it all, whereas Jon did not! The truth was hard to accept, but he must, all the same. _At least the moment is quiet_ , he thought, relieved to be a step past their kept secrets _. At least we have come to some sort of peace together_. Always so drawn to her, he gazed bemusedly at her when she palmed his shoulder, thumb stroking the embroidered lines of his boiled leather. His eyes were sad for her, voice soft.

“When you’re there, do you ever see me with you?” he asked.

“No,” she muttered. “I think you’re dead.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“I’ve been afraid of it, all along. You said you wouldn’t leave me, yet you did. You said you’d never make me feel alone, yet you did.”

“Aye.” He swallowed thickly. “I finally see the irony. I wanted to go and you let me go. Now, you need me to stay. And I need to _stay_.”

The way she worked her mouth, the next words were clearly hard for her to say—disarming what was left of Jon’s walls.

“Do you _want_ to stay?”

“Yes.” He closed his eyes, overcome by the truth of this. “I want to stay with you until the day I die. Thereafter, if I could be so fortunate.” He recalled his words from earlier. _From the moment I saw you on that rock, I loved you._ Most days, he still couldn’t believe she was real. “I mean it, Daenerys,” he said. “If something happened and I died, I would leave everything for you. Everything to build a life on for our House, our children, the realm. Every bit that I have will be yours. If I can come back from this…that is my plan.”

Her brows were furrowed, eyes tracing his face. “Well, of course, I know that… Why do you think you’re my royal consort?”

Jon blinked owlishly, suddenly realizing how much he was not following.

“Jon…” She sighed deeply, thumb tapping his shoulder with the ghost of her earlier agitation. “When Drogo died, I didn’t have much. It was at once very little, and more than anything anyone would have left me with; enough to build a _free_ life without him. As I grew into power, no one moved me as much as he had. Until I met you.”

Tears were forming in her eyes, but she wasn’t sad. When her hand came down to his chest, tears spilling over, he took it, thumb stroking her palm.  

“Despite everything that’s gone wrong, you continue to move me. _Of course_ , you love me enough to set me up right. And you know that if I died, I would do the same for you. You _are_ my only family. But Jon…my heart can’t feast on the worldly possessions you leave for me.” Her eyes were violet, beseeching, vulnerable. “Only you.”

Now it was Jon who was moved. He finally understood. It wasn’t about the Seven Kingdoms, the Red Keep, nor an heir apparent to seat Dragonstone. It wasn’t even about the Others, who could topple the realm with a swipe of an icy blade. It was about _her_ and _him_. Jon had been slow to realize it was her heart that she’d feared being abandoned in their final separation, but he knew enough to know he _was_ her heart. And her ancient fear of abandonment, the one he’d stoked with his secrets, broke him open.  

“ _Oh, Daenerys_. I will never leave you here alone. I will always be with you. I _am_ your heart. And you are mine.” He gathered her in his arms and she curled into him reflexively, hands curving below his vest for warmth. He knew he’d finally hit the mark when she started crying in earnest, and he tightened his hold. Jon was honestly stunned by the depth of her pain, for he never thought he’d see it again, after their row on the battlements. Here was this perfectly made woman, with an essence of _fire_ and compassion, once again made to feel so small in their dying world. Jon had foolishly outed the flames time and again, when he was the only one who would stoke them just to see her shine _.._. It made him wonder urgently… What other fears had she held inside herself all these moons, just waiting to spill into her dreams and haunt them in waking? Better yet, how could he help her?

“ _Bride of Fire_ …” he breathed, petting her hair as she cried into his chest. “I am yours, Daenerys. Always yours.”

Soon, she started nodding, but slowly, as if believing was still hard to do. She was so precious to him. How could he let her know?

“I am Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar of House Targaryen and Lyanna of House Stark. Nephew to Lord Eddard of House Stark. And nephew to you, Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Jon...”

“I know,” he chuckled nervously. “But it is the truth. I am your blood _and_ your lover. I am your friend and soon to be your husband.” Her breath caught and in a flurry of movement, she wound her arms around his neck and he wiped her tears while holding her with the other hand, reverent. “I am your shield in the darkness and I am your anchor in the Narrow Sea.” She trailed her nose along his jaw, also captivated by the promise of new life that had always been between them. “I will fuck you right and give you children, Daenerys, _heirs_ for our House.”

“Hopefully they aren’t mad,” she whispered ironically against his throat.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I believe in us, but we can’t control who they could be...” When she said nothing, he decided to stop talking about it. “It will be a long, hard fight through Winter. But we _can_ survive together. And when the storms end, we can build anew.”

“That’s all I’ve wanted with you. But to be honest, Jon, I wasn’t expecting any of this.” With sudden lightness, she pulled away enough to see into him with those eyes of hers. “Since we started this conversation, you are so different than you’ve been these past few weeks. Have you suddenly cast off your burdens?”

Jon chuckled at her perfect choice of words. “I think I have. Since learning about my parents from Bran…and finally telling you…” He took a deep breath, exhaling with a nervous smile. “I’m beginning to feel like my own man, again.”

“Are you, now?”

She was teasing him. He laughed into her hair shakily, overwhelmed by relief.

“Good,” she said. “It’s always suited you.” He dipped his chin to press his lips to her forehead. Her fingers curled around his arm, sliding to his hand on her waist, where she wound their fingers. “As for my brother and Lyanna Stark…you will have to tell me everything.”

Jon nodded. “Of course.”

“Not now, though.”

“Alright.”

Moments passed, uninterrupted. The snow had significantly lightened up, enough that he could make out the yellow-green lights of the castle. Suddenly, _Drogon_ shifted and released an impatient screech. Daenerys sighed irritably and met Jon’s eyes. They secured themselves on _Drogon’s_ back. After purring to him, Daenerys gave two short commands, and the dragon lifted into the air. It seemed that within a few, long frigid moments, they had landed before the north gate-- _Drogon_ blowing steam from his nostrils, shifting as if impatient. Jon had assumed the dragon had been hunting when they’d called him—but perhaps he was always, always hungry.

Not wishing to disturb him much longer, Jon slid off first, helped Daenerys down, then went to the dragon’s front and carefully placed his palm on his snout. _I am sorry for what I’ve done to her. Drogon’s_ large red eye flicked to Daenerys, who had come up to Jon’s side, then returned to the man. Sensing his intelligence—and perhaps his bond with the dragon—Jon nodded to him. _Thank you for everything. Drogon_ growled low and long, shooting steam onto him. That was when Daenerys pulled him away sternly, protectively.

 _Drogon_ huffed. After one more growl, he crouched low then pushed off into the air.

Daenerys said nothing, just pressed her palm to the back of his shoulder. Jon curled his burnt palm and watched the dragon disappear within the quieting storm clouds.  

“Don’t mind him.”

“He’s right.”

“I know. We’ll take this a day at a time.” She turned to him. “About your fears, Jon… It seems that we both fear losing everything. But what that entails differs some, and we handle it differently. I think I need to reconsider what these fears are doing to you. It’s hard for you.”

He was stunned by her compassion. “You don’t need to—”

“I do. We’ve known many hardships, so we’re used to surviving on our own. But we have each other now, Jon. Your fight is _our_ fight.”

Jon blinked warmly at Daenerys, amazed by her abyssal inner depth. _Thank you_ , he wanted to say, but the words were inadequate. _Yes, please, yes_ , he tried next, but that didn’t work either. What could he say? How did he feel? _I think I love you more_ , he thought at last, _than I did before._ By the way his heart had stopped, it would seem so.

A long beat had passed and Jon still hadn’t spoken. Daenerys smiled, humor blooming in her eyes. “Didn’t you say something like that to me before? When you left Dragonstone? _What happens to you happens to us both. We_ are _the choice._ ”

“Aye,” he smiled, “I remember.”

“Then don’t look so surprised, Jon Snow. I’m only repeating what you once said.”

He surprised them both with his laughter, as he circled her into his arms. She wrapped herself around him with equal fervor. And suddenly, Jon recalled his vision of this simple embrace before Winterfell, all those moons ago on Dragonstone. _Indeed,_ _everything happens at some point,_ he mused _. But how you get there is up to you._

Didn’t he say that on Dragonstone, too? To Lord Tyrion during a feast? Perhaps he _had_ learned some things…

Soon, Daenerys pulled away and repeated, “We’ll take this a day at a time, then.”

Having heard her warning tone, he nodded. Though he didn’t want to let her go yet, he managed a fleeting caress of her wrist before finally turning to the castle again.

Even though they were the ones moving through the snow, the looming ancient stronghold of House Stark seemed to meet them in the darkness. Far above, on the battlements facing the Lonely Hills, there was a desperate shout. Certain they’d been spotted, Jon and Daenerys stepped through to the north gate. Within moments it screeched, peeled open by hasty, rushing hands. And suddenly their friends, family and Northern lords flooded past to look at them with their own eyes; cheeks ruddy in the cold, gasps desperate and relieved.

Jon traded hugs with his sisters while Daenerys embraced the members of her Small Council. The group was wound so tight there didn’t seem to be enough time debrief—or to breathe!

After shaking hands with Lords Robbet Glover and Yohn Royce, Jon turned to Sansa and Arya, who had since calmed. Bran, however, had not joined their party. “How did you know we were coming from north of the castle?” he asked.

“Some of the guards heard you shouting on the battlements,” Arya said. “It took us far too long to realize you weren’t even in the castle!”

“We sent a search party of twenty,” Sansa continued. “But the storm was so severe…”

“We got lost,” Daenerys supplied. “Your men might be lost, too.”

Sansa considered the information with wide eyes, but Arya bowled forward. “Then how’d you make it back so fast? And so safely?”

“ _Drogon_ is an intelligent creature,” she answered primly. “We only needed to call him, and he came.”

“I knew it!” All eyes turned to Lord Tyrion, and Jon caught Ser Jorah roll his eyes at him.

“It’s just as well,” he approved. “ _Drogon_ has become far more behaved.”

“He has,” Daenerys agreed, a small, prideful smile at her lips. Jon smiled, too, but he couldn’t help looking around for his brother. Ser Jorah seemed to notice. “What are we still doing out here? Jon and I are soaked through! We have to change and rest.”

“Of course, your grace,” said Lord Tyrion, as they started for the icy courtyard. “But you’ll have to do that quickly. Since you’ve been gone…”

Everyone had made it behind the castle walls. There was a shout from the guards and the gate closed behind them. Jon still didn’t see Bran.

“Where is my brother?” he asked, voice tight with concern.

“He’s in the godswood,” Sansa supplied. “He was searching.”

“For us?” When her features fell, Daenerys said, “What is it?”  

“Your grace,” Ser Jorah hedged, “when you and King Jon were out there, did you see _Viserion_?”

“ _Viserion_?” she started. “Why would I have seen him? _Drogon_ hunts the bears northward but _Rhaegal_ and _Viserion_ usually hunt southward. That’s where the wolves are, aren’t they, Jon?”

“That’s right,” he nodded, but he was distracted. “Is Bran looking for him?” he asked the knight.

“Yes,” he sighed regretfully. “After you two left the feast, Bran went to the godswood. I don’t know why—”

“He just likes to see things,” Arya quipped.

Ser Jorah nodded wearily to the lady. “Well, he started looking. He saw you both, but he wasn’t sure where you were. Then, suddenly he said he couldn’t see _Viserion_ at all.”

“At all?” Daenerys gasped. “Since when? How long has he been searching?”

“Since we started looking for you and Jon,” Arya answered in a small voice.

Daenerys went quiet, lips pursed, gaze tracking around as she took this in. “ _How_ did we lose him?”

“We don’t know what the limits are to _greenseeing_ , your grace,” Lord Tyrion said quickly. “He could be too far away for Bran to see. Distance could be equally measured in time. Or partially.”  

“And what of the dead?” she asked. “Can he see them?”

“He has seen the army of the dead Beyond the Wall,” Jon answered. He tried to take her hand to anchor her, but she refused, eyes fearful for her child. “On the other hand, when I was gone… Bran had already honed his powers by then. He told me he didn’t see me until I was back…”

He could never quite say the words to fully describe his dance between life and death, but Daenerys knew what he meant. Judging by their party’s awkward shifting, and Lords Glover’s and Royce’s confused frowns, he didn’t need to finish.

“In that case…” Lord Tyrion surmised. “There seems to be a difference, here.”

For a long moment, no one said a word. Then Daenerys started for the godswood.

Wherever she went, they followed. And so, they spent the first few hours of the New Year wringing their hands at Bran’s side as he searched the realm for a large, white-winged dragon.

When the sun had come up without sight of him, everyone retired to their chambers for a few hours of rest. Comfort was hard for Daenerys to find, but Jon and Missandei managed to help her out of her sodden clothes and kept a fire burning far into the late morning. 

_______________

Daenerys barely slept. Jon barely slept.

He woke first and watched her doze, petting her hair when she stirred to calm her down. Body sore from the night before and mind still buzzing, he took stock of their situation. When he and Daenerys had fallen beyond the castle walls, everything wrong in their relationship was pressed up to their faces for examination and reconciliation. Now, a missing dragon was a reminder of how fragile their current political and military standing really, truly was.

While Daenerys dozed fitfully, he felt like a rock tumbling in the flow of a river’s current—unable to see yet unable to distrust the strong current. After so long without it, _faith_ felt strange. At the very least, the sun shone in full force for once, and Jon watched thin rays cut through the north window and dance across Daenerys’s skin, hoping they warmed her in some way.

When she finally woke, it was with surprise.

“ _Viserion_?”

He gathered her in his arms. “Not yet. We’ll find him.”

After a confused beat, she pillowed her head on his arm as he nestled against her back, and she gazed out of the window. Jon gazed at her sadly.

Terrifed, too.

 

  

 

//

Winterfell

288 AC

Autumn

//

“Forgive me, m’lord—I just—there’s a—” The commonborn guard who had entered the great hall spotted Jon and started shuffling toward him. “Your grace! _We need help!_ There’s a dead man in the courtyard! 

Within moments, Jon dismissed Arya’s plea to get involved and ushered her, Sansa and Bran into the hidden war room behind the great table. After sending Lord Yohn Royce and two of his trusted men along with them, Jon ran off with Ser Davos and Lady Brienne at his flank, hands palming the hilts of their swords. Only to be stopped by an urgent hand, so as not to slip. _Blood_. It was everywhere, collecting greatly where the stone floor turned to mud in the courtyard. In the snow-choked quiet, men shook on the ground—from oncoming death or renewed life, Jon did not know, for all he felt was fury and shame giving a sudden _tug--_

And Jon woke to heavy breaths and clamoring thoughts of Daenerys Targaryen.

His hand shook as he reached below his pillow, stopping only when he pulled a letter forth. Her penmanship was drawn into the parchment, greeting Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, at the top. His eyes scored her words once again, but he felt sick in the way that he’d come to know meant he’d done something—or plenty—wrong. After dressing himself in early morning’s faint light, he moved quietly through the Great Keep, trying to ignore the storm currently knocking at the peak of the watchtower. Halfway down the third level, he stopped at a great door and knocked twice.

After a moment, the door squeaked open, revealing Sansa’s bleary eyes. When Jon lowered his gaze, she sighed. She let him in then closed the door behind her as he entered, taking in the bookshelves and the hairbrushes on the nearby table and the parchments on the desk.

“I was asleep, Jon.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Well, you came here for a reason.” She moved closer, crossing her arms before her. “What’s wrong?”

“I haven’t done as well as I should have.”

When he paused, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“What kind of king am I, Sansa? I’ve wasted so much time trying to keep the lords happy that we don’t have enough food, or supplies, or weapons. We don’t have the coin and we don’t the armies--only us. It’s not enough. I need Daenerys. She’s the only one who can help. The only one who would.” The words had poured out and he left him panting.

“Five moons have passed since your crowning,” she stated. “Are you _certain_ you don’t want to wait any longer?”

Her chin was lifted, eyes twinkling. His brows rose with realization. Slowly, he said, “I deserve that. 

She rolled her eyes. “Sit down, silly.”

Sighing with frustration at himself, Jon sat at the small, nearby table and Sansa seated herself across from him. The hairbrushes reminded him of how much she had liked to brush her hair in their youth. To see them tangled with scarlet hairs now was oddly intimate because they were older. Sansa was a woman grown. _Of course,_ he thought, _not all women are the same. But they are special._ Daenerys was most special, yet Jon was unsure if his efforts to convince his vassal lords of this fact had worked. _I doubt it,_ he thought. _Not with the way I’ve carried on as if I didn’t miss her. As if she wasn’t already on her way…_

“What are you going to do?” Sansa asked.

Noticing how she eyed his curling hands with concern, Jon opened one palm and took one of Sansa’s hands. She smiled tiredly.

“I want to thank you, Sansa.” Her brow quirked at his evasion but she let him continue. “You don’t know her, yet you have always been generous with me about her…” He nodded again, though a frown tugged at his mouth. “I should have understood it before, that you won’t know her until you meet her. Thank you.” 

She squeezed his hand. “I know _you_ , Jon. And as your sister,” she said simply, “I have to look out for you. That includes supporting you.”

“Of course.” He dipped his head, nodding gratefully. “I’ll take a few men with me to Dragonstone. If the gods are good, she will forgive me and I’ll return with her.”

“Send a letter to warn her. I think she’ll need it.”

“Right,” he chuckled, moving to his feet. “While I’m gone, Winterfell is yours.” 

“ _When_ you’re gone, you mean, as you sometimes are.”

“Sansa...” He reached the door and smiled for the first time since entering her rooms. “You’re suited to rule during turbulent times, you know.”

She gave him a small but scandalized smile. “You’re describing yourself. Now, you don’t have to butter me up, Jon. Of course, I’ll do it.”

Jon frowned at his sister. “I won’t be gone long.”

When she didn’t respond, he inclined his head to her and turned to leave. Her last words followed him as the door closed: “…yes, you will.”

 

_______________

 

Though she hadn’t meant for him to hear, her words haunted him through the vicious storm and all the way to White Harbor’s calm, sun-bleached docks. Jon had never liked cities, for he disliked the way their occupants lived on top of each other. He could call it inhumane, but he knew he’d be wrong. The white city certainly held a grand sense of humanity, which he had come to miss upon Winter’s steady arrival deeper in the North. 

It reminded him, even more, of his need to swiftly return home.

Thankfully, within the day of their arrival, Lord Wyman Manderly offered Jon, Ser Davos and their four men a small, fast ship with a small sea crew. South-moving winds favored their journey and put Ser Davos in a very agreeable, talkative mood on the prow of the ship. For his sake, Jon tried to keep up his role in conversation, about the warmer southern air, even King’s Landing and Queen Cersei Lannister’s cruel reign. _When all is said and done,_ he thought _, the people of the Crownlands, Daenerys’ people, have a low chance of survival._ _So do mine._ Ser Davos talked of his home, Flea Bottom, his wife and deceased children, and his part in the Battle of the Blackwater as Stannis Baratheon’s Hand of the King.

Jon didn’t like to think of the Southron king and how his men died in his ill-advised Northern campaign. Doing so always brought a twist to his stomach.

Steering away from that topic, Jon asked about the knight’s time on Dragonstone. He wanted to know if the other man had felt the stirring in the castle air, too.

“Strange place, your grace. A volcanic island just off the coast and into the stormy, southern sea. Everything is made of dragons. There’s even a tower shaped like a dragon telling the gods to fuck off. We took to the castle well enough, I suppose because we were Southron. But it was all strange.” He paused thoughtfully. “Sometimes I thought I felt something in the air. And sometimes I think Lady Melisandre took to it, or not. Depending.” He met Jon’s eyes. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Aye,” he nodded, chuckling darkly. “I know exactly what you mean, Ser Davos. The Targaryens were extraordinary…and fearsome.”

“Well, how about Queen Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name? What is she like, with her dragons?”

He recalled bonding with her over dreams, battles and fates that couldn’t be explained. The power that brimmed in their Stark and Targaryen bloodlines. Surely, _Valyrian_ and First Men were all and the same.

“She is admirable,” he answered, eventually. “The most admirable person I’ve ever known. I am honored to know her.”

“Well, that’s something coming from a man who once died for—” Jon appreciated his admiration, but he didn’t want reminders of the mutiny. Ser Davos paused, then continued. “But, admirable, your grace? I thought you loved her?”

“That’s _why_ I love her,” Jon returned. “I admire everything about her. Her honor, her humor, her wit. And she loves me.” He closed his eyes, warmed like linen drying in the Summer sun. “I wanted to share my love for her with everyone. For them to love her like I do, and welcome her, and support her. But home was so different from her world that I thought I had to choose between the North and her…” He trailed off, taking in their surroundings. “It’s hard to imagine, now, that the two couldn’t come together. Do you see, Ser? I’m not good enough for her.”

“ _Yes_ ,” the older knight approved, exasperated. “That’s what being a man _is_. When a woman is a real match, you’re not good enough. You do stupid things and find stupid reasons to keep your heart from stopping for her.” He sighed. “In my experience, there are worse things to be than a father, worse things to do than to love a woman. It’s alright, Jon.”

He had started crying; silent, ridiculous sobs. Ser Davos brought his palm to his back and patted him a few times, in a way that reminded him painfully of his father—the first he’d had, truly… Though Jon’s arms rested on the lip of the ship, he was unsteady. Shaking, as if vibrating. Then he was laughing at himself—at everything—before soberness returned. 

“I have to ask her to forgive me,” he stated. “As if she could.”

 “The way home is long, but you have to start somewhere.” Ser Davos squinted at him. “I saw it when you got back and I see it even now. Queen Daenerys was good for you.”

Jon glanced at him, noting his sincerity. The salt air caught in his nose and he thought of his first ride with Daenerys on _Drogon’s_ back, his stunning conversation with Bran about his parentage, the warm press of her lips to his cheek, hands and wounds…

He nodded in silent agreement. Then he said farewell to his Hand and went to his cabin, where he retired for the night. Once their ship entered the Narrow Sea the next afternoon, he went out to the prow of the ship. Head bowed to deflect the sun’s glare, he promised to return where he was needed with who he needed, quickly. _If she would agree,_ he thought _._ Hopefully, she would. All his mistakes were laid bare on the choppy waters. He was sure he would gaze over them for a long time: the secret, his pride, his silence. _This is not what you do to someone you love. Who you truly love._ He thought he knew this, but his devotion had been called into question.

He didn’t know how to muster it, but in the meantime, he would begin to make amends. He hoped that when the time was right, he would tell her about his parents and who they truly were to each other. As painful as it was likely to be, she needed to know. Just as he needed to know why his fear about loving her so deeply had shaken him. After all, what was the difference between dying in a mutiny and his heart stopping to save Daenerys? To save a babe?

 _Simple,_ he thought. _The difference is love._

Then, what was the difference between dying in a mutiny and killing the world for her? Or saving the world for her?

_No one else would do it for her. Die for her, fight for her, save the world for her._

Thinking of Daenerys’s heartfelt gestures to him, he was aware that she did this for him. She was so aware of love’s nature that she gave him the sweetest kind. He was realizing how flawed his love had become and admitted that he was still learning. He would likely always _be_ learning, which was just fine. _After all, there are worse things to do, worse things to be…_

When they arrived on the third day, Jon felt like he knew the right thing to do and was confident in his ability to do so.

Wisely, he didn’t hope for more than he deserved from Daenerys—nothing more than to look upon her and ask for forgiveness. Once they reached the island’s shore, they were greeted stiffly by her favored bloodriders. Seeing how they remembered him, Jon sheepishly returned the acknowledgements and had his men follow the Dothraki up winding hills to the castle. Ser Davos was a focused force at his flank, which he was grateful for, as his stomach grew nervous.

Once inside the dragon-shaped entrance hall, their damp steps echoed into the throne room, where he finally laid his eyes on her.

_Daenerys._

She was perched on a throne made of volcanic rock, violet eyes trained on him from a hundred hands away. Lord Tyrion was present, as was Missandei of _Naath_ , who commenced with Daenerys’s many titles. By the time it was his turn, Daenerys had stepped down to meet him but three feet away. Ser Davos announced him, and Jon paused.

Her lips quirked expectantly. “Lord Snow?”

Jon answered, quietly, eyes wet to see her. It was all he could think about. The words curled in his heart and rose to his lips.

“Forgive me.”

 

 

 

~*~*~

Winterfell

290 AC

Winter

~*~*~

It was all Jon could say these days. The phrase rose from his lips so often, it rang in Daenerys’s ears when she woke, when she ate, when she looked at him. When his friend and brother of the Night’s Watch, Samwell Tarly, had suddenly arrived from Oldtown with his Free Folk wife and child, Jon had uttered those words guiltily. And there it was again, above the sound of their feet crunching through the frozen mud in the busy courtyard. _Forgive me._ Daenerys glared at him with vexation. At the moment, Jon wasn’t asking for her forgiveness with his tongue, but it was etched into his face each time they made the short trek to the godswood.

“This will be the last time I say this, Jon. So, you had better remember. It is _not_ your fault. I won’t say it again.”  

They had all made their choices. _To lie. To steal. To kill._ Viserion had flown off to hunt days ago, by the time she and Jon had their row on the battlements. They couldn’t have prevented this. All the same, it had happened. And they needed to _find_ him. Jon seemed to sense her nearing the end of her rope. He nodded, eyes lowered, and held his hand to her back as she opened the gate and entered the godswood.

The multitude of trees created a dense canopy that made the godswood feel cocooned and safe. Packed earth, hummus and moss moistened the air, and cushioned their steps as they moved further inward. On the opposite end of the black pool, unfrozen even in Winter, Bran sat in his wheeled chair below the heart tree. His eyes went from grey to white the moment Daenerys spotted him. But she knew the greenseer had seen her all the same.

Nothing yet, then.

Maybe something—anything—now.

Daenerys and Jon took a seat at the nearby stone bench and watched as Bran rifled through the regions of the realm. Four days into the search for _Viserion_ , they had still come up empty. If he opened his eyes without word of her child, Daenerys had to start considering the multitude of reasons Bran’s near omniscience could not track him.

Was _Viserion_ dead? Was he Beyond the Wall? Had he flown back to Meereen? To the Dothraki Sea? He had known so many homes… Had he gone to his true home, to Valyria?

_If so, why? And why is he beyond Bran’s reach?_

Daenerys felt like she was losing her dragons again. There was no difference between chained children and missing children, for they were lost to her, all the same. Would it feel like this, when the battles were over, and she took stock of the people who’d perished in her charge? She closed her eyes at the thought. When she opened them, Bran’s sad eyes were taking her in.

He had trouble speaking. As he worked his lips, Daenerys reminded herself again. _It is not your fault. You couldn’t have prevented this._ Viserion _is alright. He must be._ Jon took her hand. She met his eyes and squeezed his palm distraughtly.

“I can see through the eyes of the heart tree,” Bran began. “But the Old Gods _are_ the heart tree. They’re the wind and the water and the rocks. They’re the force that moves the world. For all my powers as a greenseer and as the Three-Eyed Raven…I am not a god.”

“Bran,” Jon reproached. “That is not the way to begin whatever you have to say.”

Jon had good sense. Hospitality, honor, justice... He was her friend, lover and royal consort, who had good sense in all matters but for his heart—or rather, for the man he’d become after death—and Daenerys was mixed into his identity like the grains at the bottom of a wine goblet. He was the same for her, she’d learned. The moment only reminded her distantly, but enough for her to take notice. Bran, however, was rightfully perturbed.

“I know that Jon, I’m saying she needs to pray,” he returned. “We all need to pray, your grace.”

Daenerys’s eyes widened. “He’s dead, then?”

“I don’t know.” Bran sighed heavily. “Hodor, a member of our household, was a great man. But he would have had a life of choice, if it hadn’t been for me. You see, Hodor died…in the past and the present…so that I could live long enough to speak with you, now. In the end, when he got a chance to choose, he saved me.” 

Daenerys started, sensing the vague profoundness of his revelation. More than anything, she noticed the way Jon started, as well. His brother’s power had a depth they had both learned of in that moment. Something that was—about as powerful as they were…

“ _Viserion’s_ disappearance could be of benefit to the realm, as well,” Bran continued, face turned to the sky. “After all, as soon as this happened, the sun is shining brighter than it has in two years. We can’t understand why things happen the way they do.”

Daenerys felt overwhelmed and overpowered. A tear sneaked down her cheek. “You speak of faith.”

“Yes, your grace. We need to pray for Viserion. We need to pray for us all.”

 _I have no gods,_ she cried. _But what else can I do?_ As if hearing her weariness, Jon wrapped his arm around her, pulling himself closer, and pressed a kiss to her temple and then to her hair, breath shaky with his remorse. He squeezed her once, then released her. And as Daenerys took a deep breath, she bowed her head and closed her eyes, tried to open her heart. She sent her love out to _Viserion_ , wherever he was. She prayed for him.

Two hours later, as the bright sun begun to dip into late afternoon, Daenerys sat in her chambers with Missandei’s steady company. Sansa and Arya were still unaware of Jon’s lineage, which she somehow felt guilty for, after growing close to them. She avoided them and nursed her grief over _Viserion_ in the meantime. Missandei was reciting a kind Valyrian children’s poem she had learned in her youth, when a knock sounded on her great door. Lord Tyrion entered with a blanched face and a parchment in hand, and passed it to Daenerys with haste.

She frowned deeply at the wax seal: two longaxes with darkened shafts crossed with a crown between their points. “Who is it from?”

“They’re Northern. House Dustin of Barrowton.”

“And why hasn’t this been sent to Jon?” 

“I couldn’t find him in time. This was the first place I thought to look for you. Thank the gods.”

“Is it assigned to us both?”

“Yes.” He pressed forward hesitantly. “House Dustin has been sworn to the Starks for thousands of years. The other lords say Roose Bolton sought Lady Barbrey’s support, but she never took to him. She was one of the first to support Jon and Sansa before the battle. This could be important.”

Daenerys considered this. “We wait for Jon, then.”

“Your grace,” Missandei interjected, “if it’s urgent, it doesn’t matter who reads it first.”

“They were his people first,” she reasoned. “We wait for Jon.” 

To their fortune, they didn’t have to search far, for they found him in the First Keep—however, he was not in his study, or the godswood, or in the armory. They found him in the war room behind the great hall, looking over dusty books, tomes, and a tweed map of the North and Beyond the Wall, with Ser Davos and Samwell Tarly. The men shifted at the tension her group brought in with them.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asked, noticing the rolled parchment in her hand. Daenerys broke the seal as she crossed the room to him.

“We received a raven from Lady Barbrey Dustin.”

He started, brows raised. After inclining her head in response, she unrolled the parchment. Their eyes traced the words in tandem.

 

_To the King in the North and the Queen Paramount,_

_As King Jon and I have discussed in prior letters, I shall not be present at this New Year’s feast, due to the snows. Although the date has passed, it was to our fortune. I must tell you of what I have seen. A man, clad in brown rags on a brown mount, golden head shining during these unseasonably bright days. Ser Jaime Lannister has been spotted heading north, alone. I now have him in my possession, and if clear skies continue into the next fortnight, I will have delivered him to you. If the gods be good, I shall see you both soon._

_Barbrey Dustin, Lady of Barrowton_

 

By the last line, fire had begun to rage in her heart, and her hands curled into fists, threatening to tear the parchment in half. Jon stilled her hands and curled them into his, beckoning her gaze. But it was hard to accept his attempt to steady her when all she wanted was to burn a path to the man who had killed her father and finally end it all there 

“Your grace?”

Her tight gaze slipped to Tyrion’s, causing a shock to go through him—and then, the room. Missandei came to her side and read the letter quickly. She turned her eyes to the lord, hard and unyielding.

“Your brother has been spotted on the Kingsroad alone,” she announced. “What will you say now?”

Daenerys sent a warning look to her scribe, but turned to Lord Tyrion to see his reaction nonetheless. Jon silently watched their exchange.

“I’m…afraid I have a conflict of interest.”

“Indeed, you do, Lord Tyrion. You and I will have to discuss that.” She appreciated his honesty. Her Lord Hand had proven to be aggravating but not usurping, even now, when his only brother had ridden north to do only the gods knew. In any case, it wasn’t time guess, but to plan and ready themselves for the Lannister’s arrival. “We will welcome Lady Barbrey when she arrives with Ser Jaime. And we will deal with him as we see fit. Draw up a letter detailing this to Ser Jorah, so he and Grey Worm know to expect them. Tell them I will visit tomorrow.”

He glanced away, unable to hide his uncertainty. “Yes, your grace.”

Nonplussed, Daenerys passed the parchment to Jon before taking a few steps around the war table and casting her attention on the information there. Thick books chronicled the Children of the Forest, the ancient Stark Kings which Sansa and Tyrion had discovered in the Tower of the Library, and even vital maesters and their deeds. The others had shifted around and started talking among themselves, while Ser Davos was reading Lady Barbrey’s letter with a deep, perturbed frown. Making note of that, Daenerys paused before a book about the Children, which lay just before Samwell. When he pushed the book closer to her, there was a slight tremble in his palms.

“Is it this?” she asked quietly.

“Yes. It’s nothing good, your grace.”

Sensing Jon’s attention, she turned to him. His eyes were somber and his expression had turned grim.

“It’s just as well that you’re all here,” he said to everyone present. “I’m angered to hear about Jaime Lannister, but I’m also concerned, because the news came at a bad time. Bran tells us the Children made the first Whitewalkers to keep the First Men from further settling in Westeros. It’s not in the books we have at Winterfell, but Sam’s brought back a few from the Citadel that mention it.” To Daenerys, he said, “This morning, Bran said something that caught my attention. From our time Beyond the Wall, we know the Others come with the storm. If that’s the case, the sun keeps them away. These books say so, too.”

Shocked murmurs went around the room. Jon turned to the tweed map, hands braced on the table. Ser Davos joined him and Samwell moved to his feet. Daenerys moved to the helm of the table, so she could see everyone clearly. Indeed, it was nothing good.

“We last saw the Night’s King in Hardhome,” Jon continued. “Eastwatch-by-the-Sea is the closest castle. I’d already sent some men to man it, by the time you came, Daenerys. It’s been more than two years since they took Hardhome, and I don’t know where the Army of the Dead is or how much longer the Wall will hold. I want to march to Eastwatch and create a first line of defense. So that when the time comes, we aren’t surprised. We were discussing it, when you came in.”

It was strange to be blindsided by something she’d expected—had travelled so far to achieve. When they’d first come to Winterfell, she’d told Sansa she was ready to march north within the fortnight. Yet, time had seemed to slow down, as one thing came after another, and before they knew it, Lord Petyr Baelish had been removed from her inheritance, Jon and Daenerys had learned the ugliest truth about themselves, _Viserion_ disappeared as if he’d never been, and then Jaime Lannister suspiciously arrived. She’d have been angry and confused through it all, if she hadn’t been listening—carefully listening.

 _Faith,_ she thought _. The horse god draws all khalasars near, to ride him. The Old Gods are the water and the rocks and the wind. R’hllor makes all his children part of his plan. This is mercy._  

The revelation stole the breath from her. She’d been so quick to return to war that she hadn’t thought to first strengthen her heart. Though she hadn’t been ready, all of this had happened so she could get there. So that she and Jon could get there.

Not but a moment had passed. Everyone’s attention was on her, however, waiting for her response. Just for show, she frowned thoughtfully.

“You want to leave soon.”

Aye,” said Jon. “Within the fortnight.”

“Alright, then. I’m with you.”

However, she hadn’t expected the shock that went around the room. She didn’t know the cause, but she had a good guess. Their Small Councils had only just grown used to the new, strained normal between their leaders that to see her agree so easily with Jon was unusual. Understanding that, she acknowledged it.  

“It’s no secret that these past two months haven’t been easy…for Jon and I. But it hasn’t been easy for any of us.” She met each of their eyes, to let them know she’d done her best to be present with them. “When we arrived at Winterfell, we were running after each other, healing old wounds and admitting to new ones. We had to solve our pasts. We had to strengthen our hearts.”

That was when Lord Tyrion started crying. It was a single tear, but she could see it in the dim light of the war room. Missandei patted his shoulder comfortingly, and when he met her eyes she whispered: “We’re counting on you, my lord.” After taking note, Daenerys observed Samwell and Ser Davos, as well, and she found herself mildly stunned. They were a group of individuals, experiencing something strange and terrible, yet also profound in the ways they were brought together. Feelings of gratitude had receded and now flowed, and carried Daenerys to Jon’s side.

His handsome face was soft with awe, and it made her insides dance for the first time since… the New Year. In fact, she wasn’t the only one who had felt the change in the air. Her words had revealed something deeper.

“I used to ask myself, why should anyone trust me? Why should anyone follow me? I have since discovered the righteousness that dwells within me, which dwells in everyone in this room. Looking at you all, I see what has brought us together, and I know we were meant for this Great War. _Viserion,_ too, wherever he’s gone… We were all meant to bear witness, as well…”

She trailed off, sensing that Jon was following her line of thought. Finding that he was, she deferred to him. “I agree,” he said, eyes caught on hers. “We were meant to bear witness to those we outlived, to those who will die, and for ourselves.”

The war room grew hushed, a sudden moment of vigil sweeping through, as she and Jon turned to each other, gently drawn like magnets. She could tell he wanted to get away; to curl up by the hearth and soothe each other. Yet, their duties were not far from their thoughts. Daenerys struggled to reconcile the love in her heart with the solemnity of the end of all they knew. Tyrion must have felt the same dread, for he pressed forward demurely.

“People don’t want to die. No one wants to die. But with these dead men—” He swallowed thickly and gestured to the table with both hands, as if his hands were still fettered. “That is our final act.”

“ _Aye,_ ” Jon declared. “Some of us may not make it through the war. It doesn’t matter. We have to make sure the world doesn’t die _with_ us.”

“I’m not fighting you on that.” She couldn’t even call it a snap from Tyrion, for he seemed weary _._ “And I’m not going to say no to leaving for the Wall. You all know what has me so upset, so I won’t reference that, either. I—I don’t know what to say—”

“You don’t want to die,” Jon supplied for him. “It’s alright to admit it, Tyrion.”

“No, I—I don’t want anyone else to die!”

“Well,” said Ser Davos, “this was a poor time for you to realize that.”

It was rare to see Tyrion babble, but Daenerys also had little patience at this stake in the game.

“I don’t presume to teach you, my lord,” Ser Davos continued. “But I’d like to advise you. Somehow, I’ve managed to live to a ripe, old age, and I’d like to live longer. Yet, I have no thoughts about making sure that happens, or regret for the things I can’t change, much of which may soon come to pass. I’m just doing my best. That’s what you owe yourself.” He smiled, earning a small smile from Tyrion. “Now, I’m proud to serve you, your graces, and to serve with all of you. I believe in us. If the gods don’t, they can piss off. “

Missandei spluttered a laugh, brow creased in a way that suggested she’d surprised herself, as well. Ser Davos smiled at her, while Jon shook his head, chuckling ironically.

“Alright, then,” said Jon. “I'd like to us dismiss. Daenerys?”

She nodded her agreement, and as the impromptu meeting broke, she watched as Tyrion joined Jon’s side, asking, _Now what was this about the sun?_ Daenerys considered him, further wondering on the extent of the impact of his brother’s sudden appearance. _If someone else had killed your father and suddenly appeared before you,_ she wanted to ask him, _what would you do?_ It was a fair question to the coming reckoning. _Better yet_ , _it’s a revelation_. After giving a passing, reassuring squeeze to her arm, Jon joined Tyrion and Samwell at the table, and they poured over the books. She longed to look over them as well, but Ser Davos had withdrawn to the corner and gazed into the hearth with Lady Barbrey’s letter still in hand, mildly troubled.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked Missandei.

“The letter.”

“Should I ask him about it, later? I’d like his counsel on the matter.”

Her deep eyes were empathetic. “I think that’s best, your grace. At any rate, you should rest. It’s been a long day.”

She couldn't disagree. They said farewell to their company, then off they went through dim, spring-warmed hallways of the First Keep. Indeed, the sun had begun to set as the evening hours drew upon them, which the household staff battled away by buffing up fires in the corner of the halls. The cold had sent most of the Northern lords and Valemen indoors, who Daenerys and Missandei noticed were gathering in the halls in and around the great hall. The women were on the way to the Great Keep, but now Daenerys stopped to observe them.

“After the War of the Five Kings, they’ll want Jaime Lannister’s head in this part of Westeros. More than anyone.” Thinking of her time in Meereen, of men whose minds were made up independently of hers, she said, “I’m not sure I could stop them from taking it…without things getting ugly between us.”

Missandei frowned deeply. “These men need discipline.”

“You are not wrong,” she replied, gazing intensely at them. “The Northern lords, in particular, are proud. The Starks are aware of that. As a matter of fact, I think Sansa can control her men better than Jon can control his. Perhaps Lady Barbrey will temper them with a woman’s touch.”

She thought Missandei would laugh, but she was quiet for a long moment. “I’m worried, your grace. You’re shaping to have either enemies all around…or more strongly held allies. The odds are equal.”

“I sensed that, as well. But even with these dead men, how could I return home and not face the people who chased my family into exile, in order to strengthen my claim to the throne?”

“That’s a good point. Perhaps you should think on trust?”

“That is just what I mean,” Daenerys concurred. “Why should anyone trust? When they ask, which they certainly will, I’ll answer with no fear and they’ll know I gave them the opportunity to choose me.” 

Her scribe marveled. “I hope I’ll live to see the day.”

“All men must die. But we’re not men.”

Missandei laughed, low in her throat. “Indeed, _but_ all men must serve. That, no one can escape.”

Her reply pulled at something inside of Daenerys. At first awakening, her visions had come on gently, like a dreamless dose of sweet sleep. Now, however, since a war-battered Red Keep began to haunt her, she could feel it coming on. The sensation frequently reminded her of the fever dream she’d had in the sheep pastures of Lhazar, before being found by _Drogon_ and later, Jhaqo’s khalasar. The twisting of her stomach, senses melding with voices; past, present and future meeting within her and playing before her eyes.

And so it was, again. 

For thoughts of _Viserion_ brought mourning and her vision widened—and she saw him sunning himself, lazily circling a wall of ice. She gasped and drew Missandei near. The other woman sought her eyes, but all Daenerys could see was her child in his last moments. She knew what had happened to him, where he’d disappeared. She knew what was calling her, where she needed to go. Her voice ripped from her, dry and high enough to catch the ears of the nearby men. Although a part of her was embarrassed to be seen in this state, the world had started to spin too much for her to care. She pressed her fingers to the stone floor, grounding herself and searching for a fresh remnant of her dragon’s essence. The search took her beyond plumes of fragrance lifting out of blue roses and into the cracks in the ice, deep into the heart of Winter. 

“Your grace!”

Her dragon’s eyes appeared, which had once been like flame and were now frozen. His heart had stopped beating long ago—long enough.

“ _Viserion_ ,” she whispered. “I found him. He’s _dead._ ”

“What happened? Who killed him?” 

Then she saw cerulean eyes, bright like stars but cold and unknown, its spirit formed of will and hatred. Daenerys had heard of the Drowned God and his viscounts, which followers of R’hllor pronounced as thralls of the Great Other. She didn’t even want to speak his name, the fear he aimed to instill in her was so _cold._ But the fire was hers, so she gathered everything surrounding her, drawing it nearer to her until she had enough momentum to pull herself away from him.

The words shuddered out of her throat.  

“The Night’s King has _Viserion_. He saw me. He knows…” 

_______________

 

Daenerys finally had her gods. Indeed, there were none but the Lord of Light and the evil one of death. How the former used the arrows of the latter, she would come to learn again.

Or so, she hoped.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? I was working toward endgame since I started this but I just remembered to add the tag! Heh. Drop a kudos or a comment, I'd love to know what worked and what didn't, as this is unbeta'd and there's more to come :)


End file.
